


Dead On Arrival

by the_chaotic_panda



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brace For Angst, First Meetings, Homelessness, M/M, Modern Era, Patrick's weird, anything else i write will be spoilers so imma stop tagging now, oh i lied, pete doesn't know what's going on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2018-10-05 04:57:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 119,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10298036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_panda/pseuds/the_chaotic_panda
Summary: Pete has cancer. Patrick has nowhere to sleep.Cryptozoology: The study of animal life that has not been proven to exist.





	1. This Wouldn't Have Happened If I Were Batman

**Author's Note:**

> Pete is a little bit sad, Patrick is a little bit strange. Angst, fluff, and everything in between.

Pete has cancer. There, he said it, now shut up. He needs sympathy like he needs a ten-foot pole shoved up his ass. _Yes,_ it's serious, _yes,_ he's gonna be dead in whatever dwindling number of months the doctor said this time, he's come to terms with it, everyone else can hurry up and do that too.

Other than that, he's normal. He likes to remind himself of that, he won't wear sad nearly-dead people clothes, he keeps on bleaching his hair 'cause he likes it better that way, keeps on getting tattoos, watching TV shows he'll never see the end of, buying food that'll last longer than he will. After all, what else is there to do but keep on going?

Today is no different. He's heading into town, gonna go buy some more shampoo, get lunch after. He'll head to a club later, the same one he always goes to, the honey-pot that makes him loathe being a bee, but he'd sooner drown in it than pass it up. Pete's a planner, he likes to know the agenda, make the agenda. The law is in his blood, alongside the cancer.

That's the one thing his dad gave him, other than his eyes; a justice serving empire, raking in thousands for every criminal it locks up. He doesn't like to brag, but it's a simple fact: he's rich. Nice house, nice suit, nice watch, he looks the part. Doesn't always feel it, though. He lets other people run the business for him, pace the courtrooms, cite the statutes. All he has to do is show up to a few meetings, smile, nod along with their corporate bullshit, then leave. He likes to compare himself to Bruce Wayne in that sense, the (nearly) millionaire with too much time on his hands. Except, without the nocturnal death-defying tendencies.

He likes the city. It's dingy and soot-stained and so full of rubbish it could double as a landfill site, but it's where he's always been. He knows it, every highway, every alleyway, knows where he's most likely to get a decent coffee and where he's most likely to get stabbed.

It's busy today; well, it's always busy, but Pete finds himself accidentally bumping into more people than usual, feeling elbows in his ribs and car horns in his brain. He's in no hurry, though, the only guy on the street dressed in suit who isn't running for the underground.

There's a lot of places that sell shampoo. The department store a few blocks away, the supermarket across the street, the elegant barber's shops which practically scream _don't come in here unless you're rich._

Pete hates all that, though. He never buys from places like those, going out of his way to find little independent stores with bells on the doors and small ads in the windows, where he can be a regular, not just some corporate zombie. His favourite is tucked away off the main road, the crowd thinning as he shimmies through it, away from the feel of breath on his face and smoke in his lungs.

It's a cute little place, at least, to him it is. The scarlet paint is peeling and the glass of the window is so grimy you'd never know it'd been transparent once, but it's got character. As he walks though the door, the few people in there smile at him.

"Hey, Martha," he says brightly, waving to the lady at the counter. She's short and bespectacled, the type of person you wouldn't remember if you saw them in a crowd. But she doesn't mind that, and neither does Pete. Like the shop, she's a hidden gem.

"Hi, Pete, how're you doing?" she asks, smiling. She's one of those people who actually, genuinely seems to care about others.

"Oh, fine, fine," he sighs, as usual. "You?"

"Can't complain, dear. Did you know, the bookshop has gone under?" she exclaims, waggling a finger at Pete and leaning heavily against the counter.

They talk for a few minutes, swapping news, trivial matters that Pete didn't know he cared about. He finds himself extremely emotionally invested in whether the new housing estate east of the city will create more traffic, really wants to know whether Mr. Reynolds found those shoes he wanted in the right size.

Eventually, she points him in the direction of the toiletries, and Pete thanks her, despite the fact that he's been here a thousand times, and knows exactly where to find what he's looking for.

 _Armour_ or _Intense Clean,_ the eternal question. _Armour_ smells nicer. And it's blue, too, which is obviously the best colour. But then, _Intense Clean_ lasts longer. Ugh, he's never been good at making important decisions.

In the end, he just shoves both of them in the basket slung over his arm, he can always give one to somebody in need of shampoo. He could become a freelance shampoo dealer; be the one everyone thinks of when they have greasy hair, be hailed by millions as the hair-cleaning god.

Or, he could just buy the damn shampoo and get out of there.

It's as he turns to weave his way back through the aisles when he sees somebody he's never seen in here before. He's almost offended; this is _his_ spot, he knows everyone, what the hell is some stranger doing in _his spot_? This guy isn't even dressed for going outside, let alone being around other humans; he's wearing a sweater, like, three sizes too big, jeans with gaping holes in the knees, a moth-eaten rucksack, scuffed old trainers and a trucker hat that looks like it might've actually been under a few trucks in its time.

Now, Pete doesn't like to judge, so he calmly tells himself that people can wear what they want, even if it is a crime against all that is good and holy, and goes to move away, when he sees something that really _does_ offend him.

The guy reaches out for something, grabs it, then stuffs it in the pocket of his hoodie, keeping his head bent low, hardly moving.

 _He's stealing,_ Pete thinks incredulously, frowning at the guy as he reaches for something else. _He's stealing from my beloved little shop._ Clenching his jaw, he decides he better do something about this.

The aisle isn't long, it only takes him a few steps to shuffle along until he's near the guy. They both pretend to be enthralled by the electric toothbrushes, when Pete sees the guy make to move away, probably to go see what else he can take. But Pete moves fast; he shoots an arm out and grabs the guy by the wrist before he can get away.

"Whoa, there, what're you doing?" he says pitifully, feeling the guy struggle, looking back at Pete with confused panic.

He can see his face better now, and under the hat, there's just a kid. His face is fringed with sideburns blurring into stubble, long hair falling over his forehead, mouth slightly open and wide eyes shocked and guilty.

Pete's probably not _that_ much older than this kid, but he still feels that grown-up despair at the state of the younger generation. "Are you shoplifting?" he says, like a parent who's caught their child with a hand in the cookie jar.

The kid doesn't say anything, but the way his face reddens and his eyes dart downwards tell Pete the answer to his question.

He sighs, shaking his head, and suddenly feeling like a valuable member of society whose duty it is to teach the youth the errors of their ways. "Listen, kid, you could end up in prison for this. Even if you don't, you'll get a criminal record, and that makes it hard to get a job, okay? You don't wanna ruin your future, do you?"

No response, other than a huff and a scowl. Pete decides to pull the sob-story.

"Look, you see Martha over there?" he leans round the aisle and points to her, chattering away on the phone. "She owns this store. She's a single mum, she's got two kids to feed, this place is her income. You steal from here, you're taking food off their plates, do you understand that?"

The kid keeps on staring at him. "So you're saying I should steal from the supermarket instead?" he frowns, looking sceptical.

Pete sighs again, getting more frustrated by the second. "No, I'm saying – I just – look, just don't steal at all, okay? What have you taken, let me see," he says roughly, keeping hold of the kid's wrist and diving his other hand into the pocket of his sweater.

The kid struggles, trying to swat Pete's hand away, but when Pete shoots him a warning look, goes still. As he fishes the stuff out, though, Pete frowns; he was expecting booze or cigarettes, instead, he finds soap, a razor, and a tube of toothpaste.

"What's this? You can't afford soap?" he laughs slightly, frowning.

The kid shakes his head. Pete raises his eyebrows, feeling pity spread through him. Maybe he can cut the boy a bit of slack.

"Okay...well, listen – if you need this stuff, then I'll get it for you," he says gently, a sense of charity surging through him. He drops the items into his own basket and digs his wallet out his pocket. The kid watches him warily, and Pete tries to smile to get him to calm down a bit. "You want anything else? Toothbrush? Deodorant?" he adds, starting to catch the whiff of mould and stale sweat that seeps from the kid.

Letting go of his wrist, Pete opens his wallet, staring into it and hoping he has the cash for this. It's fine, though, because Queen Elizabeth II stares back, so he smiles and takes out the crisp fifty, making a little cheering noise.

The kid doesn't smile back, though, so Pete coughs and goes back to looking at the array of toothbrushes, silently wishing the would-be-thief might show a little gratitude.

But Pete barely looks round in time to see the boy snap out a hand and swipe the fifty from Pete's grasp, before turning and bolting out of the store.

All that's left of him is the chiming of the bell on the door.

Pete stares after him for a bit, his empty hand still clasped around an invisible bill. _So much for charity, then_. He thinks about chasing after the kid, but he really doesn't have the energy. He'd never catch him, anyway.

Sighing in frustration, and feeling a profound sense of annoyance towards that sneaky kid, he starts to put back the stuff the boy had tried to take, trying not to think about what kind of a life he must have if he can't afford soap. He could've been lying, though. Kids these days, it could've just been some act to get him to take his wallet out. Maybe the kid had been planning this all along.

He then realises that he doesn't have any other cash, so he can't even buy the thing he came here for; he'll have to go to one of the chain stores and pay by card. It was only a fifty, but Pete huffs all the same. Stupid kid. He'll probably just go spend it all on drugs, end up in prison, or dead.

It's with a scowl on his face and an empty basket that he mooches out of the store, dumping the basket in the basket-storing place and giving Martha a quick wave before he reaches the door. So much for being the god of clean hair.

The rest of the day is boring as hell. He spends most of it being annoyed at that little shit in the shop, and muttering under his breath about the inconsiderate youth. He might as well be sitting in an armchair, smoking cigars and using the word _whipper-snappers_.

The club is the only place for Pete now, after the excitement of shampoo buying, and he doesn't care that it's only six o'clock in the evening, he's gonna go blow a load of money on cheap booze and handsome strangers.

He'll never see that kid again.  


	2. I'm Only Doing This Because Bins Don't Make Effective Pillows

 

Patrick has nowhere to sleep. And _yes,_ he tried the fucking community centre, they wouldn't let him in, would they? Something about _anti-social behaviour_ and _unwilling to risk another police enquiry._ Fucking dick heads, that was _one time._

So now, he has to find himself a nice piece of ground, instead. He can't go to the spot he was in last night, the fucking cops kicked him out, 'cause apparently it's his fault he's got no money and no roof over his head. Thanks for nothing, government.

The wind bites at his neck as he hurries through the streets, burying himself in his sweater and peering down every alleyway, hoping there's some kind of shelter. Literally anything will do, anything he can – _bins_.

They'll do nicely. Two big, square, blue bins the size of small sheds stand toward the front of this particular alley, with cardboard spewing out of them and everything.

It's late, there's not many people around, but he checks for cops anyway. You never know when they're gonna pounce on you. He pulls his hat down further, hunching his shoulders to keep from shivering. The nights are always cold, and they're only gonna get colder. The wind whistles through the streets, weaving with the beating music of the club down the road and the cars sweeping past.

When he's safely in the shadows of the alley, he reaches up and wrestles as much cardboard as he can carry out of the bins, cursing when the wind catches it and sends it spilling on top of him.

It's good stuff, though, better than he's had before, corrugated and clean. He gathers it up and lays it out in the corner between the wall and the bin, sitting down and feeling the cold breeze lessen.

He sets his backpack down next to him, digging through it to find his blanket. It's a mess, muddy and holey and wet from that fucking dick of a storm last night, but it's warm, and he's cold, so it'll have to do. Patrick won't eat tonight, he's gotta save the rest of that guy's money to get another sleeping bag, 'cause his other one was fucking stolen, those asshole teenagers. He hopes they die horribly.

And, for the record, he doesn't feel the slightest bit of guilt towards the dude. Who carries fifties around with them like that? He's probably a rich bastard, one of those people with a house and a job and a car. They can all die horribly, too.

He spent most of the money on new trainers, his old ones had practically worn through, and he has no desire to become any more acquainted with the ground than he already is, thanks. They're rubbing his feet a bit, socks are for losers, and people with money, but they're dry and that's all that really matters.

Trying to ignore the cold metal of the bin against his skin, not to mention the smell, Patrick pulls the blanket up around him, bringing his knees up to his chest and huddling as tight as he can into the corner. He knows he shouldn't sleep, but he has to, he has to. It's been too long.

His eyes fall shut, and he tries to imagine he's somewhere else, and not pressed up against a bin with the ground underneath him. It's hard to sleep when you're hungry, even harder when you don't feel safe, but he does anyway. He's used to it by now.

-

"...yeah, take the blanket too."

"What if he wakes up?"

"Who cares, just grab it and run!"

Suddenly, Patrick feels cold crash over him, his eyes snapping open, hands on him and voices near him.

"Shit, go, go!" someone laughs shrilly.

He rubs his eyes and sits up, just in time to see a group of kids charging down the alley, cackling their heads off.

"What the fuck?!" he yells suddenly, looking around him to see that his blanket is gone. And his backpack. _You've got to be kidding me. You've got to be fucking kidding me._

"You fucking pieces of shit!" he hollers, scrambling up from where he was sleeping and running after them, feeling the rubbish-strewn and ice-cold ground beneath his feet. _Wait, what?_

Those motherfuckers have taken his fucking shoes. _They've taken his fucking shoes._

He's screaming now, cursing at the top of his lungs, his hands in fists and every muscle in his body coiled with pure rage. Fading laughter is his only response.

Tears prick his eyes, frustration and hatred fuelling his desperate cries as he pulls at his hair and stomps his bare feet on the concrete. How the fuck could someone do that?! What kind of asshole steals from a homeless person?! That backpack had everything in it, his spare clothes, water, money, it'd taken him so long to save up for that and now it's gone. He has nothing but the clothes he's standing in.

A growl rips from his throat as he storms back to where he'd been sleeping, and suddenly he can't take it anymore. He lets out a scream as he throws a fist against the wall, feeling his knuckles split and his arm jar but doing it again all the same.

In a fit of blinding rage, he aims a kick at the bin, hoping if he hits it hard enough, those fucking kids might feel it up their thieving little asses. But he forgets. He forgets they took his shoes, too, doesn't see the jagged piece of metal sticking out. He only feels the pain as the sole of his foot is ripped in half, hears his own cry of agony.

He shouts every single swear word he knows at the bin, his vision blurring around the edges, and he throws out a hand to steady himself against the wall, breathing hard.

 _Holy fuck_ does it hurt. He's had pain worse than this before, sure, but that's difficult to remember when it feels like his entire leg is being roasted, he swears his foot must be melted off by now, or he might just have to chop it off, his teeth clenched so tight they've practically fused together.

The tears in his eyes make a bid for freedom, and begin to spill down his face. He can't swallow the sobs anymore, the pain making it too difficult to keep hold of whatever dignity he might have left, so he just clutches at his leg with shaking hands and focuses on being able to breathe, cursing in between gasps.

"Hey, are – are you alright?"

Patrick looks up, ready to strangle whoever the fuck wants to mess with him any more, and sees a figure peering at him from the opening of the alley.

_Wait. Oh, shit._

It's that dude. That dude from the shop, the dude he stole the money off, _oh god no this is not good._ Apparently fate hasn't quite finished shitting on him.

He ducks back behind the bin, wincing as his good foot steps into a warm puddle of what is probably his own blood.

"No, wait, you're that kid!" the guy exclaims, taking a few steps towards him and pointing.

Patrick sighs. Spending the night in a prison cell is starting to look like the better option. He hops out into full view of the dude, trying to keep his face as neutral as possible despite the searing pain in his foot.

"Listen, I don't have your fucking money, alright?" he yells at the dude, fists clenched. "I spent it. I can't pay you back. Go on, call the damn cops!" It's not like he can run away.

"Hey, no, it's – it's okay, I'm not gonna call the police," the guy says, loudly but gently, his voice bouncing off the walls and swallowed by the night sky. "What're you yelling about?"

Patrick looks away. He shouldn't tell this guy anything about himself, he knows that, but then the frustration of all this is getting a little too much for him to keep hold of. "Some, uh... some kids stole my stuff," he mumbles at the ground.

"Oh, so you're against stealing now?" the dude laughs, and suddenly Patrick wishes he could walk just so he could give the guy a punch in the gut.

"Listen, shithead, you-" he starts, but he's cut off.

"No, no, I was kidding, I'm sorry. What did they take?"

"Fucking everything. Blankets, money, _everything!"_ Patrick gushes, biting his lip to keep from breaking down all over again.

"That's awful. Whoa – they took your shoes too? What happened to your foot?" the dude says anxiously, pointing at Patrick's bare toes, his bleeding foot trembling as he tries to keep it hovered off the ground.

"What do you care?" he snarls, wiping furiously at the tears on his face.

The dude ignores his question, though. "You cut it? That looks pretty bad, you ought to get that cleaned up. Have you got somewhere to go?"

Patrick scoffs. "What does it fucking look like?"

"You don't? You sleep out here every night?" the guy asks, seemingly unfazed by Patrick's malice. He'll have to try harder next time.

Instead, he just nods at the floor, allowing himself a wince of pain.

"That's rough, dude," the guy says, then frowns for a moment like he's thinking. "You – do you wanna come to my place?"

"Piss off," Patrick spits immediately. "I don't need your fucking charity."

"Well, no offence, but...it kinda looks like you do, kid."

Running shaking fingers through his hair, Patrick growls at the sky, then at the dude. "Just leave me alone, okay? I'm fine, I'll be fine."

It's the dude's turn to scoff now, but when Patrick shoots him a glare sharper than that fucking bit of metal sticking out of the bin, he coughs and sighs. "Listen, it's just for tonight, okay? Come back to mine, I'll patch you up best I can, yeah?"

"No," Patrick asserts, nearly stomping his feet, then thinking better of it.

"Come on, you can have a shower, I'll cook you a hot meal, and you can sleep in the guest room. Queen-sized bed and everything?" the guy says hopefully, taking a step forward.

He's about to say no again, he really is. But his foot is screaming, he's pretty sure he can't walk, like, at all, and the thought of an actual meal makes his stomach yearn to be filled. He doesn't actually know what a queen-sized bed is, but it sure sounds comfy. And comfort isn't something Patrick is too familiar with.

The guy could be a crazy stalker creep, a murderer or something, but he doesn't seem like it. Patrick doesn't always understand how people talk, doesn't get why some things are funny, and why some things aren't funny at all, but this guy seems like he isn't kidding.

"Uh...okay," he says, shrugging like he isn't dreaming of limbs that don't ache and eyes without shadows underneath them.

"Good. Alright then," the guy nods, rubbing his hands together like he's nervous or something. Then he starts to walk towards Patrick, who hops quickly back behind the bin, panicking. _Maybe the guy is a stalker._

"Get away from me!" he spits, wishing he could move faster than an arthritic slug, trying to ignore the fact that his whole leg is burning.

"Hey, hey, calm down," the dude holds up his hands, speaking a bit softer now he's nearer. "Look, I only wanna help you walk."

"I can walk!" he protests. It's such a lie, it's almost laughable. He knows if he puts any weight on his foot, he'll probably pass out or something stupid like that.

The guy raises a sceptical eyebrow, and moves closer, holding out a hand.

Swallowing quickly, Patrick gives in. He loosens his grip on the side of the bin, and lunges for the guy's hand, grabbing his arm and nearly pulling him over, but the guy keeps still, letting Patrick steady himself. An arm is slung around his shoulders; Patrick flinches at the feel of someone's hand so near to his back, but he doesn't suppose he really has much of a choice but to just cling on for dear life.

He manages to catch the guy's neck in the crook of his elbow, and finally, he feels some of his own weight taken off him.

"Are you good?" the guy asks, gripping Patrick's shoulders tightly and raising his eyebrows at him.

Patrick nods as best he can, looking around for any stuff he might have forgotten, then remembering he doesn't have any fucking stuff.

The guy takes a step forward, and pulls Patrick along with him, watching him carefully. Patrick's foot jolts at the sudden movement, and he lets out a whine of pain, like a wounded animal. The guy stops immediately, and Patrick can practically feel him panicking.

"It's fine, I'm fine," Patrick growls through gritted teeth.

"Are you sure? I could, like, carry you or s-"

"Just keep fucking walking," Patrick snaps, pushing at the ground with his good foot and trying to shove the guy forward. _God, this is embarrassing._

With about as much grace as an alcoholic getting out of a swimming pool, they start to stagger down the alleyway, casting a strange three-legged shadow across the concrete.

Patrick tries not to think about the steady flow of blood, thick and warm, trickling between his curled toes, and focusses on not tripping up, grateful for the smooth pavement as they limp down the main road.

The guy babbles away, his voice a buzz in Patrick's ear, pieces of what he's saying sometimes floating through.

"...lived here for very long, it's just, like, convenient, y'know...my mum's near, she likes to visit...club down the road, don't worry, though, I'm not wasted, it's just funny seeing everyone else get wasted..."

They turn another corner, onto a less busy road, less lights and more parked cars.

"Kid?" the dude's voice is suddenly louder, and Patrick's aware that they've stopped.

"What?" he blurts, twisting his head to look at the guy.

"I just asked what your name was," he laughs, motioning for them to carry on.

"Uh...Patrick."

"Cool, okay. I'm Pete, by the way," the guy – Pete – says, grinning like he's just made a new friend. "My place is just over the road," he points, "nice to meet you, Patrick."

Patrick very much doubts that anything about their meeting was nice, but lets Pete shovel him down the street all the same. The novelty of whatever good-willed yearning this was will wear off for Pete soon, Patrick's sure. He'll stay a night, get some food, get his foot patched up, that's all. What's the worst that could happen?  


	3. I'd Appreciate It If You Kept Your Blood To Yourself

  
  
  
Pete isn't entirely sure it's wise to have dragged a random homeless kid into his nice clean apartment, but he's also not entirely sure he cares.

The kid looks pretty dazed, and his foot's bleeding like hell, so Pete helps him up the steps to his place, eyeing the blood dripping to the floor and trying not to think about what that's gonna do to his lounge carpet. A shower is definitely in order him, his sweater smells like a bacterial breeding ground, and Pete worries that if he can't get the kid cleaned up soon, it might just disintegrate off his body and start a species of its own.

Pete guides him through the door, a twinge of guilt making him wish his apartment wasn't _quite_ this large and flashy, suddenly aware of the 75-inch TV on the wall and the gleam of kitchen appliances across the room.

"I'll just, uh, put you on the couch," he says awkwardly, trying not to squirm at the thought of this smelly kid on his creamy white sofas, trying desperately to push back his built-in stereotypes and not act like the spoilt rich boy he is in front of Patrick.

But Pete thinks Patrick already has him sussed; the look on his face is one that can only be described as awe, his eyes wide in the soft lighting, taking in everything from the double-doored monster fridge to the squishy carpet beneath his one bare foot. Pete can't help but smile inwardly, though, when he sees the boy's toes wriggle, burying themselves in the softness, and - _oh god he's dripping blood everywhere, holy crap quick sit him down sit him down!_

He coaxes Patrick as quickly as he can - without causing him to topple over - towards the couch and down onto it, taking a slippery hold of his injured foot and placing it on the coffee table after nearly screeching at the boy not to sit cross-legged under any circumstances. Glass, he can clean.

Patrick hisses through gritted teeth when Pete touches him; his face screws up so tight, Pete's worried it might collapse in on itself, and he has to say _something_ just to make the boy open his eyes.

"I, uh, I'll just get some, uh...stuff," he frowns, pointing at Patrick's foot as if he needs reminding what the issue is. And, _oh brilliant,_ his hands are now spotted with blood, too. This is going great, so far.

He hops over to the kitchen, his eyes on his hands, grabbing the nearest piece of anything that has liquid absorbing capabilities, which happens to be kitchen roll. Wiping his hands off as if there was something a lot nastier than blood on them, he pinches the very edge of the tissue and flicks it gingerly into the bin.

As he roots through his cupboards in search of bandages, he wonders what on earth he's got himself into, and why on earth he's got himself into it. _There is a homeless kid on my couch who stole fifty quid from me earlier today._ What the hell is he doing? This isn't the type of person he is.

But the thing is, that's exactly why he did it. This isn't him, this is the quirky millionaire philanthropist he wants to be; he's like Iron Man, only without, like...well, everything that Iron Man has. Despite everything, though, he can't help but feel a little bit proud, like on the grand scale of goodness, he's gone up a few points. Daring, that's what this is.

Armed with an arsenal of objects possessing various healing properties, he pads back over to the kid, who's hovering his hands around his foot as if it's some kind of crystal ball.

"Do you mind if I, uh..." Pete gestures weakly at the blood-smudged coffee table, his attempt at channelling Iron Man promptly falling flat on its face. _Tony Stark would know what to do._

Patrick looks at Pete, but doesn't quite focus on him, nodding slowly, a permanent wince in his face.

With a damp flannel and no idea what he's doing, Pete carefully gets to his knees and stares at the kid's foot, raising the towel and very gently wiping the blood where it's smeared on his ankle and around his toes. He gets as close to the sole of his foot as Patrick will allow; he keeps swatting Pete away, making Pete jump with sharp gasps and wild flinches.

Once the blood is cleared up, Pete can see what the real damage is. And, _ah,_ the cut is no small specimen. It runs diagonally across the arch of Patrick's foot, jagged and oozing dark liquid. _I will not throw up,_ Pete thinks when he tastes bile at the back of his throat, _I will not throw up._

"Uh, so, how did you do this?" he asks, trying to distract himself more than anyone else.

Patrick makes a pained noise, closing his eyes, and breathes, "I kicked a bin."

Pete is quite proud of himself for managing to turn his snort of laughter into a noise of sympathy, and hums in reply as he lifts the foot carefully onto one of his, _oh god,_ lovely white towels.

"Don't fucking laugh at me," Patrick snaps suddenly, glaring at Pete and sticking out his jaw.

 _Shoot, this kid's a piece of work,_ Pete begins to think, dropping whatever hint of a smile he had on his face, but reminds himself that Patrick's probably not in the best frame of mind at this precise moment.

The bleeding seems to have nearly stopped, but even with his limited medical knowledge, Pete knows it's probably worse than he can really heal with plasters and towels.

He sits back on his heels and sighs, trying to catch Patrick's flitting gaze. "Listen, I, uh, I think I should take you to the hospital."

"No," Patrick says immediately, somehow managing to look more panicked than he did five seconds ago.

"Kid, it's a big cut. You need stitches, I think," he says, peering at the gash and wondering how he ever came to be so close to a stranger's foot.

"No," he says again, "I'll be fine."

"You're not _fine,_ what if it gets infected, or, like, I dunno, doesn't heal?" As it is, the boy's landed himself with a lifelong scar.

"I'm not going to the hospital," he asserts, clenching his jaw and scowling. But it's different, this time, and Pete sees something like... _pleading?_ in his eyes. Maybe he doesn't like needles.

"O-okay," Pete says finally. He's not paying for this kid's funeral when he dies of rotten feet.

Turning back to the wound, Pete tries desperately to remember any kind of first aid lessons he might've had in school. Now that he's thought about it getting infected, though, it's all he can think about, and he decides he has to clean it.

He jumps up and fetches a bottle of Dettol, pouring some in a little bowl and diluting it like he knows what he's doing, then running back over to Patrick, who seems to have calmed down at least a little bit. When he reaches out to his foot, though, his hands are shaking.

"Okay, this might sting a little bit," Pete says in the most doctor-like way he can, dipping a pad of tissue into the solution and pressing it to the cut.

Patrick's reaction is violent and immediate; his whole body jolts and he pulls his foot off the coffee table and back towards him, letting out a cry of pain.

"What the fuck?" he yells, "What in fuck's name is that?"

Pete only just manages to seize the foot back before it stains his couch, "It's antiseptic, it'll stop you getting infected."

"I'd rather get infected than have that...stuff!" he shrieks, waving at the bowl and clutching at his ankle, knuckles bleached white.

"No, you wouldn't, kid, I'm sorry, just, uh...just put your foot back on the table," Pete says as firmly as he can, and it must work because Patrick slowly extends his leg back towards the table.

This time, Pete fastens his hand around his ankle and holds it in place as he dabs at the cut. Patrick tries to jerk back with every touch of the tissue, his toes screwed tight and his fingernails digging into the couch. Pete seems to be getting somewhere, though, the cut looks a little bit less angry, the sole of Patrick's foot now probably the cleanest part of his body.

Pete can't find a plaster big enough, so he breaks out the big guns instead, the bandages. Thank god his mum forced him to buy almost an entire pharmacy when he moved out. _You never know,_ she'd always said. You never know when you're gonna run into a bleeding tramp, apparently.

As gently as he can, he wraps the bandage around the kid's foot, shooting glances at his face every so often just to check he's not passed out or anything. His eyes follow Pete's hands, his own hands outstretched like he might have to take Pete down at any moment.

By the time Pete's tucked the end of the bandage in on itself, the whole room stinks of disinfectant, and he's surrounded by various blood-soaked objects, including Patrick's hands, which he quickly throws some tissues at and orders Patrick not to touch anything at all.

The kid's knuckles are a mess, too, but when Pete cleans them up, he finds nothing more than a few shallow scrapes. It's as if they've started to heal already.

"Uh..okay," Pete frowns, getting to his feet and assessing the carnage that's taken over his lounge. Patrick looks a little more with it now, sitting up and looking around the room, poking at his bandaged foot.

It's only when Pete really looks at him in the light that he sees how utterly filthy the boy is; his fingernails are caked with dirt, his hair is lank and tangled under that sewage plant of a hat, and he's got...well, _something_ smudged on his face, Pete has no idea what. He's not about to ask, either.

"So, uh, do - do you want a shower?" he says cautiously, hoping Patrick doesn't take that as an insult to his hygiene (even though his hygiene is practically an insult to Pete), and also hoping the kid agrees so that Pete doesn't have to forcibly throw him in the shower.

Patrick looks up, continually running his fingers over the soft material of the sofa, then narrows his eyes. "Are you saying I smell?"

"No, no, uh, of course not, I just, uh," Pete swallows, trying not to panic, "it might, just, like, calm you down?" he finishes, clasping his hands in front of him and wondering whether his face might be the next thing Patrick splits his knuckles on.

"Uh...okay," the boy says uncertainly, his gaze flicking back to his foot, wincing as he tries to move it from the table.

"Hey, let me help you." Pete immediately reached for Patrick's leg, lifting it carefully and bending his knee until his heel rests lightly on the floor. "You probably shouldn't put any weight on it."

Patrick nods slowly, letting Pete take him by the elbow and raise him to his feet (or foot, really). Pete watches him steadily, seeing him breathe through his teeth and knit his eyebrows together in concentration.

It doesn't pay off, though, because as soon as Patrick takes a small hop forward, he loses his balance and topples to one side, his arms reaching out and grabbing at the nearest stable object, which happens to be Pete. They both start to fall, and Pete only just manages to hook an arm around Patrick's neck, and another at his stomach, before he ends up on the floor.

The boy lets out a slow huff of air, steadying himself a little, but not letting go of Pete. His fingers are clamped around Pete's collar, and his other arm clutches Pete's elbow. By this point, their faces are only a few inches apart, and Pete is trying his utmost not to wrinkle his nose at the feel of Patrick's stale breath on his cheek.

As much as Pete tries to discretely widen the distance between them as they begin to stagger across the lounge, the boy only clings tighter, his grip surprisingly strong for someone who looks barely conscious.

Patrick seems to be getting the hang of hopping, and they move considerably faster than they did outside on the streets, but every so often he'll knock his foot against the floor or his leg or Pete's own leg and stop dead, leaning heavily into Pete's shoulder. A couple of times, Pete swears he hears the kid let out something like a snarl, a low, growling noise that rips from the back of his throat and makes Pete jump and look at Patrick in alarm.

But the boy doesn't make anything of it, just lets Pete guide him to the bathroom and sit him down on the closed lid of the toilet, his eyes wide as he takes in the polished ceramics and gleaming metal.

Looking around the room, though, and back at Patrick's foot, Pete wonders if a shower is really the best idea for someone who can barely stand. Plus, the kid would be left with soggy bandages, and Pete's not about to let all his hard work go to waste.

"Y'know, I think I'll run a bath for you instead. That way, you can, like, keep your foot dry," he says, nodding in an attempt to feel he has some kind of authority.

Patrick just shrugs, and Pete can feel eyes on him as he turns on the taps and swirls the water around as the tub fills up.

"I'll get you a change of clothes," he says, once he's turned the taps off and checked the bath is a good temperature. "Do you...uh...need help getting, uh, changed?" he winces, waving in the direction of the kid's decomposing clothes, immediately regretting asking that. _Please say no, please say no._

"No, you fucking pervert," Patrick spits, crossing his arms and shooting Pete a glare hotter than the bath water.

"Okay," Pete says quickly, resisting the urge to just tell the boy to get back out on the street, if he's gonna be rude. "I'll leave you to it, then. Is pizza okay?"

Patrick's eyebrows knit together and Pete can see him trying to understand something or other.

"Uh, like, pizza for dinner? Cheese and tomato and stuff? Is that okay, do you like pizza?" he clarifies, hoping he doesn't get another round of verbal bullets.

"Yeah, I, uh, I like pizza," Patrick says slowly, like he's just remembering.

"Good," Pete smiles, nodding like an over-enthusiastic air-hostess. "I'll put the clothes outside the door. If you wanna put what you're wearing outside, I'll wash it for you. Shampoo's over there," he points to the new bottle sitting on the edge of the bath, about to be used by the very person who prevented him from buying it the first time, "and if you want conditioner, it's the little bottle. Feel free to use the soap," _please use the soap, "_ and the razor. Give me a shout if you need anything."

The kid nods, his eyes following wherever Pete points, looking a little bewildered by all the talk.

"Right, well, I'll...yes," Pete fumbles, before gesturing to the open door and hopping out of it, away from this laughable excuse for a conversation.

As he makes his way to his bedroom, he wonders what on earth is going on. What possessed him to go and invite a tramp to stay the night? There is a tramp in his bathroom, and not even a polite one.

Pete's slightly irritated about that, as he roots through his drawers in search of spare pyjamas. He's sure any other homeless person would be very grateful to spend a night in a place like this, be fed and watered by a kind stranger such as himself. But _no,_ he had to get the mannerless delinquent. Although, what did he expect from the kid who stole from him this morning? _You're a prize idiot, Pete._

He eventually finds some stripy blue ones which look like they might fit the kid; from what Pete's seen so far, Patrick's pretty small, and a little chubby, if he's being honest. A rather vicious part of his brain wonders if Patrick really _needs_ a meal - he doesn't exactly look starving. Not that he'd ever even think that near the kid; he'd probably get knocked out.

After leaving the clothes outside the bathroom, and picking up the worn ones that Patrick's left, he pretty much sprints to the washing machine, refusing to breathe in until he's certain they're out of nose-range. Those clothes are a lost cause, his fabric softener is wasted on them. He's probably better off burning them before they trigger some deadly virus that leads to the death of billions and the desolation of planet earth.

The next thing he does is clean. He pretty much vaporises everything the kid's touched, scrubbing at the coffee table and the sofa to get every little trace out. And, _oh crap,_ there's red fingerprints smudged on the cushions. Pete's mum is totally gonna kill him for this.

Still, he scrubs 'till his arms ache, sighs at the stains on his carpet, and only then does he start preparing food. It's just pizza, and it's nearly one in the morning, but he's still determined to give the kid a proper meal, so he does some salad and some garlic bread and gets out every sauce he can find. No booze, though, a couple drinks at the club was enough for Pete. And god knows what Patrick's drinking habits are. Pete shudders at the thought.

Finally, and he doesn't feel the best about this, but he knows it had to be done, Pete hunts around his flat and gathers up anything of value, his phone, wallet, laptop, and puts it all in the safe in his bedroom. And _yes,_ he has a safe, it's not his fault his aunt gives him snobby Christmas gifts.

He tells himself he isn't being malicious when he puts a fistful of twenties on the kitchen counter, where Patrick will surely see them. It's more of a...trust exercise, like falling backwards into someone's arms. Except with money. It's not that he _wants_ to label the kid as a thief, but the truth is that he trusts him about as far as he could throw him.

It's just as he's finished laying the table that he hears a shout from the bathroom.

"Pete?"

Pete nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to run to the bathroom and find out what Patrick might've broken. "Coming."

There's no carnage, though, the pyjamas have gone from outside, and the door's open a crack. The kid's eye is pretty much all that's visible of him; he peeks out at Pete, fingers curled around the edge of the door, looking...scared?

"Hey, uh, what's up?" he asks, meeting Patrick's one-eyed gaze.

"Um, where's my jumper?" Patrick says quietly, pushing the door as far shut as he can whilst still being able to see through the gap.

"Oh, I've put your stuff in the wash, if that's okay," Pete says, looking in the direction of the washing machine and knotting his fingers together.

"Can I have it back?"

"Uh, well, as I said, it's in the wash, so you can't have it right now, but, like, if I'm up early I could probably get it dried by the time-"

"Please can I have it?" Patrick asks again, but this time, Pete sees the panic on his face, the way his grip on the door tightens and his gaze darts about the hall. Pete also notes that that might be the first use of manners he's had from Patrick all night.

"If you're cold, I can turn the heating up?" Pete suggests, but Patrick shakes his head. "Uh...I guess if you want a jumper you can borrow one of mine, I mean, it might be a bit long for you but it'll probably be okay," he rambles, mentally searching his wardrobe.

"Um...okay," Patrick nods, wet hair falling over his face. He still looks a little anxious, though. Pete wonders if there's money hidden in that jumper, or something.

But the kid looks rather relieved when Pete comes back from his bedroom with a big cuddly sweater - Pete's school leaver's hoodie - and takes it quickly, shutting the bathroom door behind him before Pete can get another word in.

Pete stands awkwardly outside the bathroom door for a few seconds, frowning at the floor, but also feeling a little bit proud of himself for having a conversation in which he did not get sworn at. The kid actually said _please,_ too. _God, if this is what parenting is like, I'm never having kids._ Not that he could, anyway.

He spends the next few minutes pacing around the kitchen worrying over whether he really should have sat himself and Patrick opposite each other at the table; he has no desire to be called a pervert twice in one night. He decides turning the lights up makes it look a little less like a romantic dinner.

"Fuck!"

For the second time in five minutes, Pete's running to the bathroom, this time to find Patrick sprawled on the floor, halfway out the door.

He's about to help the kid to his feet, when he hisses, "I can do it myself," and pushes himself up onto his knees, using the door handle to lever himself into a standing position.

Pete takes a step back, hands still outstretched in case Patrick decides to embrace gravity once again, and says in alarm, "what happened?"

Patrick shoots him a glare and sticks out his jaw. "Stupid fucking foot."

"Ah, okay," Pete nods, kicking himself for having forgotten that the kid basically can't walk. "Uh, you need help?" he asks, extending an arm towards a wobbly-looking Patrick.

Now that Pete actually looks at the boy, he finds himself realising how much of an effect a wash can have on someone; with loose, stripy pyjama bottoms on, Pete's own hoodie and an altogether cleaner demeanour, Patrick seems like a different person. He's shaved, bar the sideburns, and with that and the baggy clothes he looks even younger than he did before. And hell, Pete didn't really think that fat could look good on anyone, but Patrick's doughy middle and chubby cheeks actually make him look sort of - dare he say it - _cute._

He smells better, too, as Pete curls his arm around him. His hair's wet, but smells of apple, and whatever was on his face is gone too, replaced with nothing but a slight pinkness. _This is much better,_ Pete thinks, rather pleased with himself. He'd like to be made a saint now, please.

Pete's also inclined to retract his earlier thoughts about the reality of Patrick's hunger when he hears the almighty roar that echoes from the boy's stomach.

"Hungry?" he laughs as they limp over to the kitchen table.

The look on Patrick's face as he sees two full pizzas dripping with cheese sitting on the table is more than enough to answer his question.

Pete helps the boy lower himself into a chair, then grabs the seat opposite him, taking a moment to just watch his facial expressions, his lips gradually falling open and his eyes wide.

"How long has it been since you've eaten?" Pete asks, and it's sort of a joke until he sees the kid visibly calculating.

"Uh...someone gave me some soup a couple days ago," he ponders, clearly focussed upon the pizza in front of him.

"Oh, uh, go ahead," Pete says quickly, waving a hand over the table. He suddenly feels bad for skipping breakfast earlier.

But Patrick isn't looking at Pete at all, he's already tucking in. Pete watches the boy grab a slice of pizza and sink his teeth into it, his eyes falling shut and a quiet humming sound creeping from his throat.

And boy, is the kid hungry. For the most part, Pete just sits there watching Patrick munch his way through the pizza and the garlic bread, and the salad too. But he doesn't just shovel it down, he looks at each new piece of food before he eats it, like it's a work of art that should be admired, and chews it slowly, licking his lips and his fingers constantly.

Pete only picks at his own plate, trying to think of something to say, because he hates the silence, and ends up rambling at Patrick, things he would normally only say to his pet cat.

"...I mean, it's not like the country's in a _huge_ mess, I guess a lot of places have it worse, but I just think the benefits system doesn't work, the government keep cutting and cutting and soon there's gonna be nothing left, like, we need some kind of way to know who needs it most, otherwise it just goes to the wrong people, y'know? Not that, like, some people on benefits don't deserve them, it's just, some people do more than others, I guess. Oh, yeah, sure, take mine," he says, pushing his own barely-touched pizza towards Patrick, who's been looking at it hopefully for the past thirty seconds.

"Sorry," Pete sighs, "I know you probably don't care about this. Wait, how old are you?" he asks, in an effort to steer the conversation towards the election, which he's been building up to for most of the meal.

Patrick pauses mid-pizza, and stares blankly at Pete. He swallows his mouthful quickly and puts the half-eaten slice back down on his plate, his teeth now chewing on his lips instead. "Uh...how old are you?"

"I'm twenty-four," Pete says uncertainly, wondering why the boy threw the question back so fast. "You?"

Patrick shifts in his seat. "Uh...guess."

Pete frowns, seeing this as yet another opportunity to accidentally insult Patrick. The kid looks like a teenager, maybe eighteen, but Pete decides to play it safe. "Uh...twenty-one?"

The kid's eyes light up a little, and he seems to relax. "Yeah, twenty-one. That's right."

"Oh," Pete says, frowning harder,"Are you lying?" And Pete immediately regrets asking _that_ question.

"No, I'm not fucking lying, you fucking stuck-up asshole!" Patrick spits, his hand coming down on the table and making Pete jump. "Why would I fucking lie about that?!"

 _So he does think I'm a snob,_ Pete thinks, and that annoys him enough to snarl back, "I don't know, maybe you want me to get you alcohol or something? Maybe you're an under-age junkie, maybe that's what you spent my damn money on!"

Now, Pete doesn't quite know if he used the word _junkie_ in the right context, but he's still a little bit proud of himself for saying it. And a little bit terrified of what the reaction will be.

" _Alcohol?"_ Patrick practically yells, his eyebrows scrunched with fury and his glare steely, "what the fuck do you think I am?! Some fucking layabout?! You wanna know what I spent your fucking money on? Fucking _shoes._ But they got fucking stolen, didn't they, by shit-head kids who think I'm fucking garbage! I'm not a fucking drunk, alright?!"

Pete's pretty much pressed himself against the back of the chair as the kid shoots him a huff of air and turns his glare to his plate. "I - uh, I'm sorry," Pete squeaks, cursing himself for ever opening his mouth.

Patrick glances up, and to Pete's relief, doesn't look like he wants to do any face-pulverising tonight. He gives Pete a small nod, then picks up his pizza again and carries on eating.

 _Phew, okay, well done,_ Pete tells himself, _now change the subject._

All the subjects, however, seem to have gathered together and jumped out of the kitchen window, leaving Pete shifting in his seat with his mouth fidgeting.

"Uh...so, I hope the food's okay," he says weakly, "um, sorry there's no, like, meat on it, if that's what you wanted." He has visions of Patrick fishing dead animals out of bins, like he's some Gollum creature. "It's just I'm veggie, so..." he tails off, when the boy doesn't respond.

But Patrick stops chewing and frowns at him. "What's veggie?"

"Oh, like, vegetarian," Pete clarifies, waving a hand at the salad like it represents him as a person.

But Patrick just keeps on staring at him. "Veg - vega - what?" he fumbles, and Pete very nearly laughs, then thinks better of it.

"Vej-a-teh-ree-uhn," he sounds, "means I don't eat meat." _He's never heard that word before? What?_

"Oh," Patrick frowns, "okay. Why?"

And _that's_ something Pete can talk about.

"Well, like, my mum is, so she probably got me into it, but I guess mostly it's just 'cause I don't want to be the reason something dies. I mean, I know it doesn't make any difference, really, but I guess it all helps. Like, you should see the conditions they keep these animals in, all packed together, I mean, they don't even get to see the sun before they're ground into...well, whatever they're ground into. Imagine not ever seeing the sky, it's just appalling. And another thing," he continues, and suddenly he's off. He's not even sure Patrick's listening, and he doesn't really care, either.

He ploughs through pretty much everything he can think of to keep the silence away, the conditions, the health issues, the way that people are happy to eat a pig, but the idea of eating a dog is disgusting.

"Do you know what vivisection is?" Pete asks suddenly. His self-consciousness has melted away in the wake of his impassioned speech, and by this point, he's hardly even talking to the kid, who shakes his head all the same. "Well, it's like when scientists do experiments on animals, really horrible ones sometimes. I mean, I guess if it's to cure some deadly disease, then it's kinda justified, but, like, cosmetics and stuff? That's just wrong. No-one wants needles stuck in them every day, or to be, like, blinded in the name of freaking shampoo or something, it's ridiculous," he reels, his hand gestures nearly sweeping everything off the table on more than one occasion.

It takes him a couple more minutes of extensive detail on the treatment of research animals to actually look at Patrick.

The kid's stopped eating, in fact, it looks like he hasn't actually eaten anything since Pete started talking. He's gazing straight at Pete, his mouth slightly open and - wait, are those _tears_ in his eyes?

"Oh, uh, I didn't mean to upset you," Pete says quickly, shuffling closer to the table.

Patrick blinks, then hurriedly wipes at his eyes, ducking away from Pete's stare. "You didn't," he says decidedly, swallowing hard but keeping his eyes on his plate. "Just...why do they do that?"

Pete beckons his eyebrows down from the top of his forehead, and tries not to fall off his chair. "Well, I don't know. People are cruel, I guess."

The rest of the meal goes without a single swear word being uttered. Patrick only begins eating again once Pete has assured him there's no meat in any of this, and that he mostly tries to buy products that state they haven't been tested on animals. And Pete is so very proud of himself.

He's never had a reaction like that. People usually just nod and smile and ignore him, then complain about him when they think he's not listening. But Patrick...well, _cared._ And that's quite a good feeling.

So instead of cursing himself for letting the kid into his house, Pete's almost smiling as he helps Patrick to the guest room and bids him goodnight. Well, okay, there's a _little_ bit of cursing when he sees the mess the boy's made of Pete's bathroom - apparently Patrick's incapable of having a bath without causing a tsunami - but other than that, he goes to bed happy.

He decides he hates the boy a tiny bit less, now.


	4. For The Record, I Don't Trust Your Fridge

Patrick has no fucking idea how he got this lucky, but he's not about to complain.

Sure, the dude's awkward as hell, and Patrick can practically _feel_ the judgement radiating off him, but for the first time in a while, Patrick feels warm and cosy and like an actual person rather than a walking septic tank. He's also decided that pizza is his favourite food ever.

After eleven hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep, Patrick wakes up happy. He doesn't quite remember where he is at first, just that he's not on the street like usual. He stretches out in the bed, feeling the soft fabric under his fingers, wriggling his toes around in the duvet and burying his face in the pillows. He wonders if it would be okay for him to just stay here forever.

With a yawn and a rub of his eyes, he pulls the duvet up and nuzzles his nose into it, curling on his side and closing his eyes again. Just a few more minutes.

 

About an hour later, he wakes to a quiet knock on the door, and a head pokes around it. It takes him a few confused blinks to realise that the head belongs to Pete, the guy whose house he's sleeping in.

Quickly pulling the sheets up to his nose and making sure the rest of him is covered up, he watches Pete as he tiptoes through the door and tries something like a smile.

"Uh, morning," he says, then laughs a little. "Or, afternoon, I guess."

A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table tells Patrick _oh, shit, it's two o'clock in the afternoon._ "Uh...sorry," he says quickly, wondering if Pete's here to tell him to get out.

But Pete just shakes his head. "No, not at all, I'm sure you were exhausted. Did you have a good sleep?"

 _Holy fuck yes._ He decides he'd like to save up for a queen-sized bed. Queens must be very big if they have to sleep in a bed like _this_ every night. He nods at Pete, cuddling the duvet a little tighter as if in gratitude.

"Good. I, uh, brought you some coffee," the dude says, showing him a steaming mug, then hops over to Patrick and places it on the bedside table. "Don't worry, it's not instant or anything, it's proper stuff from the cappuccino machine," he says, looking rather proud.

Patrick has pretty much no idea what Pete just said, but nods anyway, pondering what might be so proper about whatever a cappuccino is. Some kind of hat, maybe?

"Uh, I'm drying your clothes at the moment, but, like, you can borrow stuff of mine again. Just give me a shout if you need help getting up," Pete says, glancing at the lump of Patrick's feet in the sheets.

 _Oh, yeah. Fucking forgot about that._ Patrick gives his toes a little test-wriggle, expecting pain, but feels only a little bit of sting. "Okay," he says, cursing himself for ever needing fucking _help._ His foot better be healed by now.

"Right," Pete says, shifting from one foot to the other and mangling his fingers together. He's dressed in jeans and a shirt, with his hair neatly combed and light stubble tingeing his face. Patrick wonders if he always looks smart. "Uh, well, help yourself to stuff in the fridge. I'm off to get some milk in a minute, so, like, do you need help now, or..?"

"No," Patrick says immediately, scowling at Pete. Again with the fucking _help._

"O – okay," the guy stammers, "Sorry. I'll, uh, leave you to it, then."

Patrick watches Pete as he sidles out the door, ducking his head a little. He seems sort of... _afraid?_ of Patrick, and Patrick doesn't know how he feels about that, but he also doesn't know how to not be scary sometimes.

He waits for Pete's footsteps to disappear down the hall, before hauling himself into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes hard. It's light in the room, the sun shines in through the window, and Patrick can see the clouds moving across the sky, endless blue peeking out between them. He can't help but smile at how utterly beautiful it is.

The rest of the room's pretty bare; a wardrobe nestles in the corner, and a chair with Patrick's (Pete's) hoodie hanging from it sits opposite. Patrick can't quite get over how perfect it all seems, how the sunlight makes the white sheets gleam and the duvet feels so soft and clean against his bare chest. He's half inclined to take _all_ his clothes off and roll around just to make the most of it.

There's a weird smell coming from the mug Pete put on the bedside table, and Patrick can't quite decide whether he likes it or not. He nearly drops the mug as soon as he picks it up, the heat stinging his hands. It's got all this froth on the top of it, in a swirl of brown and white, and Patrick can't help but dip a finger into it, watching the bubbles pop before licking at them tentatively. They taste of...well, air. Cappuccino must mean decorated air.

It's sort of nice, though, and Patrick has fun slurping at the froth, seeing how much he can inhale in one go. It's only when he takes a particularly large gulp that he discovers that under the bubbles lurks a boiling pool of lava which scorches his throat and makes him splutter the stuff all over himself.

Growling, he stares into the brown liquid, cursing it for interrupting his beloved air-foam and wondering what the hell it's doing there. What's he supposed to do, _drink_ it?

Ready for the heat this time, he carefully lifts the mug, tilting it just enough to let a little of the liquid run across his tongue. And _holy fuck, what the fuck is this?_ It's all bitter, too strong, like acid or something, and he immediately spits it out, pulling a face at the mug and trying to work out why Pete would bring him something like this, why anyone would drink this voluntarily. _Yuck._

Eyeing the drink suspiciously as he places it back on the bedside table, he decides he has to get up and fetch some other kind of liquid to take the taste away. He pushes back the duvet, exposing his pyjama bottoms, and pulls his feet from the sheets, reaching for the bandages.

The end proves rather difficult to find, but after a good deal of scrabbling around and an even greater deal of snarling at his foot, he begins to unwind the bandage. And, sure enough, what he finds is a thin, pink line down the sole of his foot, a little red in places, but otherwise looking okay. He breathes a short sigh of relief, before putting both his feet onto the carpet around him, digging his toes into the soft fluff. _Fucking hell, that feels good._

After shoving Pete's jumper back over his head, he pads over to the door (thank fuck he can walk again), opening it a little and peeking round it.

It's a fucking nice house. Like, really, really nice. Pete's probably never slept on the streets, and Patrick feels like he shouldn't touch anything. He does anyway, though, running his fingers over the thick paint of the picture on the wall outside his room. He doesn't know what it's of, but it's colourful and he decides he likes it.

The hallway runs alongside a staircase, and opens out into the weird kitchen living room thing they were in last night.

Everything is so shiny. There's all these machines everywhere, silver and gleaming. A fridge, then, must be one of these. For a moment, Patrick just stands there, staring around at it all, trying to take it in.

He sees boxes on the table, cardboard boxes with colourful letters printed on them. He doesn't know what _Frosties_ or _Cheerios_ or _Shreddies_ are, but the boxes sure seem excited about them. Creeping over to the table, he picks up the Frosties, peering into the box and seeing the bag of scrunched up orange things. Whatever they are, they look fucking _weird._

Not entirely sure whether these things are even _for_ eating, he picks one out the box and pops it into his mouth, letting the sweet flavour spread over his tongue. It's okay, actually. He picks a few more out the box and eats them, too, crunching away whilst trying not to get crumbs on Pete's spotless kitchen table.

The other two are sort of the same thing, if he's honest. Sweet and crunchy, but different shapes. He decides he like the Shreddies best, though, because each one's like a little tapestry. He wonders who weaves all of these tiny squares, just for people to eat.

That's another thing; he can't stop thinking about what Pete said. It's not like he doesn't know that some food comes from living things, he just always thought it was somehow given willingly, perhaps when the animal dies naturally. But to _kill_ things? Deliberately? That's just fucking _sick._ He'll have to get Pete to tell him what other food has animals in, so he can actively avoid it. He's gonna be that veggie thing.

Wandering around the kitchen after sampling everything on the table, he begins his hunt for the elusive _fridge._ Pete seemed to imply that it contained food, but everything he's looked in so far has been empty. There's this one door, which is like a cupboard except it sort of opens downwards, which is very dark and has lots of metal grids in it, but no food. There's a little rectangular box sitting on the counter, which scares the shit out of Patrick when he presses the big button on the side and the door pops open. There's a smaller box with a lever on the side which doesn't seem to do anything at all.

Then, finally, he tries the big silver doors. And holy fuck is it cold. Pete obviously has a portal to the Arctic in his kitchen. It lights up, too, and Patrick wonders if maybe he should greet it or introduce himself, but it doesn't seem to protest when he leans in and picks up the nearest thing he can reach; a beige, oval object which sits alongside lots of other ovals.

It's heavier than he would've thought, looking at it, but it's rather pretty, too. It's got freckles on it, and it sits in his palm perfectly. He looks for some kind of opening, a lid or a lock, but it's smooth all the way round.

Pete did say _anything_ in the fridge, so Patrick assumes this thing is edible in some way, and licks it tentatively. It tastes of pretty much nothing, apart from cold. He tries nibbling at the top of it, but can't get any kind of grip, so decides he has to bite into it. And unleash hell upon the inside of his mouth.

His teeth crunch into the thing, and it shatters, the shards painful on his tongue, but he barely has time to cry out before his mouth is flooded with cold goo which tastes utterly fucking disgusting.

Choking into his palm, he manages to spit out most of it, staring in horror at the remains of the thing. The goo is colourless, but there's something else inside, a sort of yellow blob which slides around his hand. What the fuck kind of food is this?

He decides that Pete is an idiot who eats weird crap, and hastily rushes to the sink, washing his hands of the goo and bits of strange opaque beige glass. He'll take the sweet tapestries any day.

Making sure not to try to eat any more dubious-looking food, he shuts that stupid fucking fridge and picks up the Shreddies from the table, tipping a few into the palm of his hand and eating them one by one. He wonders if Pete would notice if the packet mysteriously disappeared.

That's when he sees it.

The monster.

It's sitting in the hallway, staring at him, with big green eyes.

Patrick stops dead, staring back at it, shock plummeting through him. It doesn't move, but Patrick knows that this might be it. He's gonna die. Here, in a stranger's house, he's gonna be mauled to death. That's just fucking _brilliant._

The creature starts to move towards him, and he jumps backwards, holding out the packet of Shreddies in front of him as a shield. It's got teeth, big teeth, and claws too, and Patrick looks around frantically for some kind of weapon, grabbing the first thing his hand touches, which happens to be a lamp.

"Don't come closer!" he yells, brandishing the lamp and rattling the Shreddies.

The creature stops in its tracks, and looks at him again, and Patrick can see the bloodthirsty malice in its eyes, planning all the ways it can kill him and eat him, maybe not even in that order.

He's never seen anything like this creature before, at least, not this close up. Most of them run away before he can get close. But this one doesn't show any signs of running, in fact, it walks like it owns the place, each step it takes making Patrick back further towards the hallway.

At that moment, the front door opens.

Patrick looks round to see Pete, arms full of milk, bustling into the lounge.

"Stay back!" he says shrilly, slowly creeping sideways to block Pete from the creature's sight, "just run, okay?"

"Uh...Patrick, what-?" Pete says slowly, and makes to move around him.

"No, stay back!" he says again, "I can handle this, just fucking leave!"

"Are those Shreddies?" Pete asks, and Patrick huffs at him. _Fucking idiot._ He's clearly not understood the gravity of the situation.

"It might not attack if we don't aggravate it," Patrick whispers, an arm thrown out in front of Pete.

"Um...Patrick," the guy says, putting a hand on Patrick's arm and shuffling around it. Patrick tries to stop him, claws at his shirt and his arms, but Pete just ploughs right into the path of the creature.

"No, no, don't approach it!" he panics, his eyes wide as he anticipates the blood bath. And to think, he first ever friend is gonna die after one fucking day. Just his damn luck. The creature will probably kill him, too, leave them both dead on the floor, then feast on their corpses.

But Pete doesn't seem to have any regard for his own safety, and sets the milk down on the side table. Maybe he's performing some kind of sacrifice. Maybe _Patrick_ is the sacrifice, maybe that's why he picked him up off the street. Pete must be some kind of demon, and the creature is his ally, and they're both going to cut him open and spill his guts all over the carpet. And to think, today was supposed to be one of the best days of his life.

Patrick watches, open-mouthed, as Pete walks over to the creature, stoops down, and picks it up. It doesn't protest, just keeps looking at Patrick, who keeps the lamp and the Shreddies held out in front of him.

"Don't you dare fucking sacrifice me!" he cries, taking a few steps forward and growling. If he's gonna die, he's gonna die fighting.

Pete, however, looks at him like he's just stripped naked in the middle of the lounge. "Uh...what?"

"Look, if you let me leave, I won't tell the police about this, okay?"

Pete blinks at him. "Patrick...this is my cat?"

"What?" he snaps, hating not understanding stuff all the fucking time.

The creature closes its eyes, curling up in Pete's arms. "His name is Sam, he's not going to hurt you."

"Don't fucking lie to me!" he spits, waving the lamp at the two of them.

Pete gives him that look of bewilderment again, and laughs slightly. "I'm not lying. And we're not gonna...sacrifice you, or whatever."

 _That fucker's probably still lying,_ Patrick thinks, but lowers the Shreddies. "What is that...thing?!" he says, putting on his sharpest glare.

Pete laughs again, and _oh my fucking god if he does that one more time I'm gonna fucking beat him to death with the lamp._ "It's...a cat."

 _Cat._ Patrick's vaguely heard the word before. "What the fuck is it doing in here?"

"Uh...it – he lives here, with me, I guess. He's my pet. Like, he lives in my house and I feed him and stuff. He can come and go when he wants, but I think he likes it here. He was stray, when I found him, he had a couple of nasty injuries, so I took him to the vets and now he's better. Why – why do you have a box of cereal?"

Patrick looks at the Shreddies. _Cereal._ Possibly a collective name for the stuff in the boxes on the table? "I didn't like the fridge," he huffs.

"Uh...okay," Pete says, frowning at him. "Could you put the lamp back, please?"

Patrick narrows his eyes at Pete, hesitant to put down his weapon. He doesn't break eye contact as he creeps round the man and the creature and slowly sets the lamp back on the side table. He keeps a hold of the Shreddies, though.

"He's honestly not going to hurt you," Pete says, a rather confused smile on his face. "He's tame as anything."

Frowning, Patrick tries to read whether Pete's lying or not. He used the word _honestly,_ that's a bit suspicious. But, other than that...maybe they're not going to kill him.

Pete must see Patrick relax a little, because he steps a bit closer. "You can stroke him, if you'd like."

The creature seems quite happy in Pete's arms, and stares at Patrick with eyes half open. It's got quite big ears, and there's fur all over it, sort of patterned, black stripes against brown. Around its nose, it's got a few long, white hairs. _Whiskers,_ Patrick remembers from somewhere, _that's what those are._

He shuffles nearer, a voice at the back of his head still screaming about sacrifice, but not drowning out the spark of curiosity. Extending his least favourite hand (the one without the Shreddies in), he touches a finger to the creature's back, expecting carnage but receiving only a sleepy blink.

"That's it, just be gentle. Let him smell you first," Pete encourages, smiling at him.

Patrick nods, hovering a hand near the creature's face. It cranes its neck a little, and touches its nose briefly to Patrick's hand, cold and wet. After staring at him for a few tense seconds, it closes its eyes, and Patrick hopes that means it won't kill him. He begins to stroke it, the creature's – the _cat's ­_ fur soft under his palm, even softer than the sheets he slept in. He tries hard to keep his touch light, eventually plucking up the courage to scratch behind its ears.

"He likes you," Pete grins, and Patrick only just manages to bite back his smile.

-

After a very long and frankly fucking boring conversation with Pete about the fact that _yes,_ he can walk now, and _no,_ he would not like milk with his Shreddies, Patrick's curled on the sofa, watching TV. It's strange, because there's no time limit, and he's allowed to pick whatever channel he likes.

It's nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, and currently, he's staring with mild confusion at a man who seems to be extremely enthusiastic about a thing called a _vacuum cleaner,_ and not just any vacuum cleaner, but The Russell Hobbs RHCHS 1001 Corded Hand-held Limited Edition vacuum cleaner, just £39.99.

Pete's gone upstairs somewhere, he said he had work to do. He told Patrick to make himself at home, and although Patrick's not entirely sure how to do that, Pete said it with a kind smile and a tone of voice suggesting that Patrick was welcome here. And being welcome feels pretty fucking good.

Not wanting to risk any more lethal foods, Patrick's got the Shreddies in his lap, nibbling at them one by one as he listens to the man getting more and more excited about the vacuum. It's weird, too, because the TV is so fucking _huge_ that it feels like everything's reaching out to him, and he keeps jumping at the slightest of things. So he's more than a little freaked when the creature leaps up onto the couch beside him.

He pushes himself away from it, wondering whether to shout for Pete, whether Pete is the only one who can tame it. But it just keeps looking at him, long tail flicking in the air, before padding across and sniffing his foot.

Patrick _really_ doesn't wanna annoy it, so he keeps still, letting it creep closer. _Pete said it won't hurt me._

It looks at him for a few seconds, meeting his wide-eyed stare, then ducks its head and nuzzles its nose into his ankle. And Patrick may not know a lot about this place, the creature or the situation he's been dropped into, but he certainly knows what _that_ means. Affection. It actually, truly does like him.

He smiles, watching the creature – the _cat,_ he keeps forgetting that – as it rubs itself against his legs, its fur velvety and kind of ticklish, and wondering what it would be like to have a tail. He imagines it might be quite fun.

Slowly, he stretches out his legs, trying not to move too much as the cat places a paw on his thigh, testing it for sitability, and it obviously passes with flying colours, because the next thing Patrick knows, he's got a furry animal making a home in his lap, and a new reason to be grateful for his pudgy thighs.

After a few minutes of Patrick staring in nothing less than awe at the cat, hardly even breathing for fear of disturbing it, he decides he has to try to make some sort of conversation.

"Uh...so, so you're Sam, right?" he starts, remembering the name from earlier.

It doesn't reply, just opens its eyes a little and looks at him.

"I'm, uh, I'm Patrick, I don't know if Pete told you that or what, but...yeah," he finishes weakly. "Um...would you like a Shreddy?" he asks, dipping his hand into the box, fishing one out, and offering it to the cat.

It sniffs at it a little, then flicks its tongue out and licks at the corner. Then, to Patrick's dismay, it simply shuts its eyes again. Not a Shreddy fan, obviously.

"Have you, uh, lived here long?" he asks, trying not to panic. It can probably smell fear.

But the cat doesn't respond. It's only then Patrick realises that maybe the creature doesn't speak English at all.

"Parlez-vous français?"

No response.

"Espanol? Italiano?"

Still nothing.

"Вы говорите по-русски? هل تتكلم اللغة العربية؟ 日本語?"

The creature only shifts a bit. Maybe it just doesn't want to speak, or it's not good at language.

"It's okay," he says softly, "you don't have to talk, if you don't want to. It's okay if you don't understand sometimes. I don't always understand."

The cat flicks its tail at him, landing it on his fidgeting hand. It's _so fucking soft_ and Patrick can't help but want to scoop up this fluffy thing and carry it around forever.

He stretches out his fingers, and strokes them across the cat's back, gently, just like Pete said. And he doesn't even get mauled to death, the cat just curls up a little more and... _what the fuck._ And starts to purr.

Patrick feels his chest lift, and stares down at the creature. _"_ Holy fuck, you purr too?" he exclaims, listening to the low rumbling sound in awe. "I've never met anyone else who does that!"

Closing his eyes, he finds that place deep in the back of his throat, and purrs back, feeling the vibrations ripple right to his fingertips. He's forgotten how fucking good it feels.

But as soon as he starts, the cat stops. It opens its eyes wide, and lifts its head, staring at him. _Oh, shit. This is where it kills me._

It tilts its head to one side, then gets to its feet and sniffs at him again, probably deciding how best to butcher him. Patrick ends up just staring back, completely motionless.

After at least a minute of looking at each other, waiting for something to happen, Patrick has one last ditch attempt at not dying, and softly starts purr again, his eyes wide and hopeful.

And, to his utter relief, the cat purrs back, shuffling further up his legs and sitting straight in front of him. He smiles a little, reaching out a tentative hand, and stroking the cat, from the top of its head to the tip of its tail. It pushes up into his hand, then gets to its feet and starts to climb all over him, nuzzling his neck and his chest and rubbing itself against his stomach.

The cat ends up forcing him to lean back into the sofa in its quest to climb up him and fill his face with fluff. Giggling, he lets it flop onto his chest, huffing its tail away from his nose and steadying it with his hands so it doesn't slide off him.

"You're very soft," he smiles, cuddling the cat gently and listening to its low rumbles. He can't quite believe he's made _two whole friends_ in less than twenty-four hours. "This is so fucking amazing. People always tell me not to do it, but I don't know why. Does Pete purr? I don't think he does. I haven't heard anyone else do it, maybe it's just us. Do you do it 'cause you're happy? 'Cause that's why I do it, sometimes I can't even help it, y'know, it just kinda happens, then I get told off. Do you think Pete will tell me off? Maybe. Don't tell him, okay? I think I already freaked him out quite a lot. Sorry I shouted at you earlier, I thought you were gonna fucking murder me, or some shit like that. But you didn't, so..." he rambles, tickling behind the cat's ears, feeling it press its nose into the crook of his neck.

Already, he trusts the creature. It listens to him, it doesn't interrupt, doesn't correct him or question him or shout at him for doing things wrong. He might not speak its language, but he's fluent in its _body_ language, the way it extends a paw whenever he stops stroking it, the way its eyes droop when he scratches the top of its head. He sort of wishes someone would scratch the top of his head, too.

He's almost forgotten he's in Pete's house altogether, when he hears footsteps creaking down the stairs.

"You better stop purring now," he whispers quickly, patting the cat lightly. "I won't tell on you, 'kay?"

"Patrick?" Pete calls, appearing in the doorway and making his way towards the couch. "How – how're you doing?"

He stares at Pete, hugging the cat closer, like if he holds it tighter, it might muffle the sound. "I'm good," he says, as innocently as he can. "The man on the television says you need a vacuum cleaner."

Pete laughs, perching on the arm of the couch. "Nah, don't listen to him. He just wants money."

 _Doesn't everyone?_ Patrick thinks, remembering all the stuff he needed but couldn't fucking get because he didn't have the right bits of paper in his pocket.

Pete's still wearing his smart clothes, and he's got more clothes bundled in his arms. And a hat, too. Patrick goes still when he realises what that means.

They're his clothes. Pete's washed them, just like he said, and now he's going to ask Patrick to leave, just like he said. And to think, Patrick was so ready to forget what sleeping on the streets felt like.

"Wow," Pete says suddenly, his eyebrows rising up his face, "he _really_ likes you." He gestures to the cat, still purring in Patrick's arms.

And Patrick just frowns, kicking himself for thinking that he'd actually be able to keep these friends.

"Uh, so, I've washed your clothes," Pete starts, and _here it comes,_ "so I guess you can, like, leave now, if you want," he shrugs, plopping down at the other end of the couch and placing the neatly folded clothes in the middle.

Patrick nods, trying not to look too sad. He never even wanted to go home with Pete anyway, he was _fine_ by himself, he hates Pete and everything Pete stands for, right?

Sitting up a little, he prises the cat off him, giving it a last stroke before letting it jump to the floor. It looks up at him, making a sort of growly squeaky sound, and now Patrick feels guilty, too. He looks away from the cat, telling himself he doesn't care.

"You can keep the pyjamas," Pete says, "and, uh, if you need any food, or money, or anything, then, uh, just say the word."

Patrick doesn't know what the word is, but he nods anyway, his foot still twingeing a little as he swings his legs off the couch.

"Does your foot still hurt?"

"No, I'm fine," Patrick snaps, cursing whatever part of his expression gave him away.

Pete shifts in his seat. "Are you sure, because, like, if your foot's not completely better, then, y'know, maybe it would be best if you, like, stayed, like, another night, or something," he babbles, flapping his hands around.

"What?" Patrick asks, looking at him quickly.

"Well, whatever," Pete shrugs, "you don't have to. It's just, you don't even have any shoes, or a backpack or anything, so, you could stay and we could get you those tomorrow, or, well, I have work tomorrow, but, like, the next day, or something, but I don't know, whatever."

"So...I could stay a couple more nights?" Patrick says cautiously, reining in his excitement.

"Well, yeah, stay as long as you like, to be honest, no-one else needs that room, so -"

Pete's cut off by Patrick launching himself at him.

 _Stay as long as you like._ Patrick's buzzing with so much happiness that the only way he can quite thank Pete enough is by hugging the other man as tightly as he can, collapsing into him and rubbing his nose into Pete's hair. He's seen people do this before, to express gratitude, and he thinks that maybe he should have aimed to get his arms around Pete's chest, rather than just grabbing his head, but whatever. Patrick's been hugged a couple of times before, and in his opinion, the tighter the better.

Pete makes a muffled noise and pushes at Patrick, and there is a substantial chance that Patrick might've cut off Pete's breathing, so he lets go. Shuffling back down the other end of the sofa, Patrick wonders if maybe he went a bit too far, because he can feel Pete's bewildered stare on him, even as he looks away. He frowns at the floor, and tells himself that this is a _bad_ thing, that he shouldn't get involved with another person any more than he already has, he shouldn't need fucking Pete or his fucking cat or any other fucking annoying life-form. But that doesn't change the fact that he yearns for warm beds and kind smiles. And fluffy, purring creatures, apparently.

"Um...okay," Pete says, and Patrick glances at him to see if he's angry. He doesn't seem to be, his eyebrows are still halfway up his forehead, and his voice isn't raised. He's just sort of looking at Patrick, so Patrick looks back. Pete's got brown eyes, and brown skin, too, and Patrick likes it, how people are all different colours. "Would you like anything in particular for dinner?"

"Uh..." Patrick fumbles, caught between wondering what Pete's skin might feel like, and willing himself not to reach out and touch it. Then he remembers. "Pizza!" he exclaims, nodding at Pete and fucking proud of himself for remembering the name.

Pete chuckles a little, and his eyebrows bunch up. "But we had that last night?"

"Oh," Patrick says, frowning. "I didn't know that was a rule."

"Well, it's not really a rule, I guess, it's just...okay, you know what, we can have pizza again. Do you wanna order some, or just cook from frozen?"

Patrick blinks. He knows what all of those words mean, but he's never heard them in this context or in that order, so he just plumps for the word with the 'z' in. "Frozen."

And he's obviously gone for the right one, because Pete smiles. He's got a nice smile, a big toothy grin that lights up his whole face. "Okay, cool. I'll, uh, get going on that, then, and you can just...well, make yourself at home."

There's that phrase again. "Does that mean we're friends?" Patrick asks, just to make certain.

Pete laughs a bit, shrugging. "Uh...well, I – I guess it does."

This time, Patrick doesn't manage to bite back his smile. 

He watches Pete walk away, then pats his lap, not even flinching this time when the cat jumps onto him. They curl up together in the corner of the sofa, watching the man shout about vacuum cleaners, and Patrick wonders if life gets any better than this. _Two whole friends._


	5. Even When I'm Drunk, I Find You Strange

 

Pete's a little freaked out. In fact, he's more than freaked out, he's taken a one-way bus to freak-land where the freak king will welcome him into the round table of freaks.

So initially, the plan was to stop the kid bleeding, give him some food, let him stay the night and then send him on his way. But Patrick turned out to be a lot more than Pete ever bargained for.

In short, he's weird. First, he didn't know what a vegetarian was. Pete thought, at the time, that it was a little odd, but didn't dwell on it. Then, Pete nearly made him cry. A hard-ass tramp boy who might've been through all manner of horrific situations, and Pete caused _actual tears_ in his eyes. Then, obviously, the whole lamp-and-cereal-cat-attack. How has he never seen a cat before? Pete's nearly screamed that question at him several times already. And then he found a broken egg in the sink.

Pete's also slightly pissed off at the fact that his cat, a rather contemptuous creature who's shown pretty much nothing but apathy towards Pete for the three years he's had him, follows Patrick around like he's his mother. If the boy sits down for more than five seconds, he's guaranteed a fluffy accessory, the cat's completely obsessed.

 _And,_ his foot's nearly healed. Pete would love to think it was just his medical genius that reduced the gash to a shallow pink line in less than twenty-four hours, but he _knows_ that's not the case. He saw the size of that thing, hell, Patrick emptied the contents of his veins all over Pete's living room, he knows cuts like that don't just heal. Maybe it's a secret homeless-person remedy, maybe the kid's a gypsy child raised on tea leaves and witchcraft. Or maybe he just has a lightning-speed immune system.

Anyway, despite his inbuilt sense of disgust towards Patrick, and his introverted desire not to have anyone else around him, he sort of _likes_ him. All the weird stuff just makes Pete want to figure this kid out. That's why he said he could stay another night. He's got an extra bed, why not give it to a thieving tramp?

Oh, and then the kid hugged him. Not even an awkward hug, a proper suffocating squeeze that made Pete jump out of his skin and try not to breathe Patrick's breath. He's _got_ to get the kid a toothbrush. It was sort of sweet, though. It was nice not to be sworn at, for once.

Pete's not sure how comfortable he is with sharing his house, let alone leaving a stranger alone in it. The kid could do anything. Maybe he's a pyromaniac, and Pete'll come home from work to find nothing but a pile of ash in place of his house. He wonders if his insurance covers strange homeless boys.

It's been two days, though, and there's been no deadly mishaps. Both nights, the kid slept like a log. Before he went to work, Pete peeked round the bedroom door to see a lump in the duvet, and a mop of dirty blond hair sprawled on the pillows. The kid's quite cute when he's asleep.

After taking a couple photos of his lounge just so he'll know if anything's been moved, and checking that everything valuable is out of Patrick's sight, he nods at himself in the mirror, and goes to work. He would've set something out for breakfast, but the kid's taken the box of Shreddies hostage, so Pete assumes he'll be alright.

-

Work is _dull._ He's the managing partner of a law firm, which is as lifeless as it sounds. He's got reduced working hours due to his illness, and a lot of his duties have been taken off him, which would've been a good thing if it wasn't for the fact that all he's been left with is finance management and HR.

He liked it better before. When his dad was still alive, and Pete was just the new kid on the block, grabbing clients and pacing around courtrooms. He liked defending people, actually making a difference in someone's life. He used to be Pete Wentz, attorney at law. Now he's just a too-young manager who spends his time buried in paperwork and avoiding sympathy.

Only a few people know about his illness. The other partners, his mate Joe, and Dan, his secretary. Whenever he's in, they throw him sad glances and solemn pats on the back. Joe sometimes comes and eats his bagel in Pete's office during lunch, which is nice. Despite insisting on being happy alone, Pete craves the company.

Perhaps that's why he decides not to stay late today and instead races home as soon as the clock hits five. Or perhaps he's just eager to find out whether Patrick has blown up his house yet.

All seems fine, however, when he trots up the steps and unlocks his front door. No sounds of chaos, no weird smells.

"Hey," he calls. "I'm back." It's strange to do that, there's usually no-one for him to come home to.

As he takes his shoes off, though, all he's met with is an eerie silence.

"Patrick?" he says, immediately worried.

The lounge is empty, the TV off. There's no-one in the kitchen, either, it's exactly how Pete left it.

 _Great,_ he thinks, his mind racing, _the kid's taken off. Probably with quite a few of my possessions._ He knew this would happen, he knew he should never have left Patrick alone in his house, what kind of idiot lets a tramp have free run of their home?

He rushes about the room, little waves of relief washing over him as he sees that his laptop is still where he left it, and the pile of twenties is still on the kitchen counter, and...actually, everything is in its rightful place. The damage must be elsewhere, then.

Stalking down the corridor, fully prepared to burst into flame when he sees whatever the kid's done to his guest room, he sees that there's no-one in the guest room, just a messily made bed and the boy's pyjamas clumsily folded on top of it.

Worry turns to downright confusion when he feels the breeze on his face. He hops out of the room and down the hall, to the back of the house, where... _ah._ Where the French doors are wide open, and a figure sits on the steps outside.

"There you are," he breathes as he catches up to Patrick. He's not sure if he's relieved that the kid's still here, or disappointed that he still hasn't seen the last of him.

The boy looks up when Pete appears, his grip tightening on the cat in his arms. Wait...the _cats_ in his arms.

 _He's got another cat. How in hell did he get another cat._ This new one's ginger, a big tubby thing which Pete recognises as next-door-but-one's pet. It looks up at him, and so does Sam, like he's just walked in on a private conversation.

"Um...okay," he says, blinking at Patrick. "What's with the cats?"

"Oh," the boy says, like this isn't weird, "well, I don't know what this one's name is, but Sam wanted me to meet him or her, and we've been eating cereal."

Of course, that makes perfect sense. "Right," Pete says uncertainly, sitting himself down on the step beside Patrick, but not so close as to inspire any more neck-breaking hugs.

The cats turn their attention back to the kid, nestling between his chest and his pulled up legs. Pete notices that he's got his old clothes on, the mouldy sweater and the jeans, ripped at the knees. Pete's _got_ to take Patrick clothes shopping.

"So what've you been up to?" Pete asks, not really wanting to know the answer just in case it involves fire or toxic substances. Or blood. Please, god, no more blood.

"Why, did you think I'd fucking steal all your stuff and bugger off?" Patrick snaps, scowling at him.

"No, no," Pete backtracks, holding up his hands, "of course not, I just...uh, hoped you didn't get bored."

The boy narrows his eyes, and Pete puts on his most innocent expression. "Okay," he says uncertainly. "Well, I slept for a while, and then I watched some television, and then I came out here. It's very beautiful."

Frowning, Pete looks around at his small and neglected garden, surrounded by dull, brown fences and the roar of passing cars. "Is it?" he says sceptically.

Patrick nods, gazing up at the sky like he's never seen it before. The new cat takes advantage of this and cranes its neck to nuzzle Patrick's chin, pawing at his shoulder. Pete wonders how he went from a yelling lamp-wielder to a forlorn-looking kid covered in cats. Pete also notices how blue the boy's eyes are, the sunlight filtering through them as he stares upwards.

"How was work?" Patrick says suddenly, turning to look at Pete. The weird thing is, he looks genuinely interested.

Pete shrugs. "It was alright." He tries to elaborate, and fails.

"What's your job?"

"Oh, I'm a lawyer."

Patrick nods, but Pete can see the confusion in his eyes. If he didn't know what a cat was, he probably doesn't know what a lawyer is.

"So, like, I give people advice about the law, I guess, I represent people in court," he explains, in his least patronising voice.

"How?" the kid says, his eyebrows pinching together.

"Well, uh, say if someone's been accused of committing a crime they didn't do, then they might get me to defend them in front of the judge and jury. Like, explain to a group of people why they didn't do the crime."

"Okay," Patrick says, nodding. "What if the person _did_ do the crime, do you still defend them?"

"Well, uh..." Pete falters, trying to think of an answer that doesn't make him look like a bad person. "Well, I might not always try to say why they didn't do it, I might try to persuade the judge and jury to give the person a less harsh punishment, like, less time in prison, or something. But I don't know, it depends, I guess. What do you want for dinner?" he says quickly, eager to change the subject.

Pete sees the kid open his mouth to answer, and rushes to stop him.

"We can't have pizza again."

"Oh," Patrick says, deflating a little. "Okay."

"Sorry," Pete mumbles, feeling guilty for shutting the kid down so quick. "Is there any other food you like?"

He sees the boy thinking, and wonders what there is to think about. It's not rocket science.

He decides to help out. "We could have pasta, beans on toast, I could order curry, or make a stir-fry, whatever you want."

But Patrick scowls at his knees, cuddling the cats closer and chewing on his lips. "I don't fucking know what any of those fucking things are, alright?" he snarls, his gaze fixed on the ground.

"Uh...okay," Pete says, very much hoping the kid isn't going to punch him. "That's okay, I'll, uh, just make something, and you can see if you like it."

"'Kay," the boy nods, not looking at Pete.

But Pete just can't not ask, this time. "Hey, uh...if you don't mind me asking, why...uh, why haven't you heard of...of, uh, things?"

Patrick looks at him now, and on his face is a sizzling glare. "That's none of your fucking business, okay? I'm not fucking stupid, asshole, I just...fucking..." he falters, eyes flicking about. "I don't always...I'm not from here, alright? I'm not stupid."

Blinking, Pete tries not to feel offended or embarrassed. Work reminded him that swearing and raised voices aren't things that normally feature in his life. A sentence like that, he'd assume, would usually end friendships and kill relationships, but Patrick doesn't seem to realise this, and Pete's beginning to learn that it's not personal.

"No, of course not," he says gently, "of course you're not stupid. I'm sorry for asking."

"'S okay," Patrick mumbles, going back to stroking the cats in his arms.

"I'll make pasta for dinner," Pete decides, "it's Italian, same as pizza, you'll like it."

"Italian?" the boy repeats, looking up, "like the language?"

Laughing a little, Pete nods. "Yeah, I guess."

Something almost like a smile touches Patrick's face, and Pete has to aggressively stop himself asking the kid what the hell is going on with him.

"Okay, well, uh...I'll get going on that, then. Um," he starts, gesturing towards the ginger cat that's currently trying to climb inside Patrick's jumper, "would you mind not letting that one into the house?" He doesn't want to have to buy two lots of cat food every week.

"Okay," the kid nods, and, seeing Pete start to stand up, begins to prise the cats off him. Both follow Patrick to the doors, but Pete stops the ginger one with his foot before it can get over the threshold. He can feel both the boy's and Sam's eyes on him as he quickly slides the door shut, leaving a disappointed cat meowing through the glass. He just hopes it doesn't figure out where the cat-flap is.

Striding past Patrick in an effort to show that he, in fact, is the master of this house, he debates whether or not to go out tonight. On the one hand, he doesn't really want to leave the kid alone again. He's also quite tired from work, but then again he gets tired from pretty much everything, so it's nothing he can't handle. Or, it's nothing a few pints can't handle. And, it's been a while since he got laid. Part of him sort of wants a boyfriend, the other part wants meaningless sex and no commitment. He's in no position to commit. And if this kid gets any weirder, he might have to go out just to stay sane.

Halfway back to the kitchen, he hears a loud meow from behind him. Looking back down the hall, he sees that Patrick's opened the door again, and is knelt down next to it, stroking the ginger cat.

Pete's about to sigh and scold the kid, when he hears him speaking.

"You can't come in, it's Pete's house," Patrick says softly, tickling the cat's chin. "He says you're not allowed. Your human will be worried, okay? We'll see you tomorrow, yeah, and maybe the day after, if Pete lets me stay here."

The cat mews in response, then cranes its neck towards the boy, who leans down and nuzzles it with his nose. Pete watches, bewildered, as the cat rubs itself against Patrick's face, purring loudly all the while, before the kid gives it one last whispered "goodbye," and it hops out of the door and up onto the fence, out of sight.

Pete's hurrying towards the kitchen before Patrick can turn around and see him.

He's _definitely_ going out tonight.

-

Pete's not _that_ drunk.

Sure, he's stayed out perhaps a little later than he normally would, he's kissed someone he maybe shouldn't have, he's taking said someone back to his house, and he can't quite walk in a straight line, but he's not _that_ drunk.

But booze is the last thing on his mind as he stumbles down the street, his arm wound round the waist of the man next to him, whose name he thinks is Gabe, but he's not quite sure. All he really knows is that this dude is _gorgeous._ He's tall (really really tall), dark and handsome, just what Pete likes, and he can't wait to let this guy fuck him senseless.

They're laughing about something or other, when Pete drunkenly tries to unlock his door, third time lucky.

"Welcome," Pete says dramatically, throwing his arm out and his head back, "to my palace."

Gabe laughs too hard, bowing to him, then stumbling further into the lounge, catching hold of his waist. "It is truly excellent, my liege."

"Why, thank you," Pete grins, leaning into the man's chest and running a hand up his arm. _Wow, he's toned._

They end up kissing, then, simply by proximity, Pete supposes. It's clumsy and wet and tastes of whatever the hell they've been drinking, but none of those things seem to matter when the room's swaying and he's in the presence of nothing less than a Greek God.

Giggling seems to be the only thing Pete can do with complete accuracy, and even though he's not sure what he's giggling _at,_ he's very sure that it's utterly hilarious. Gabe seems to think so too, and they weave a winding path towards the stairs, where mind-blowing sex will surely be the order of the day.

He's just about to turn and kiss the stranger-come-fellow-giggler again, when he sees a figure curled on the sofa.

"Patrick!" he says loudly, pointing. "It's Patrick," he nods at Gabe, who grins like Pete's just told a dirty joke.

"Hey," the kid responds, and Pete's waving enthusiastically when he asks, "who's that?"

"This," he says slowly, slapping Gabe on the chest, "is my friend. My _sexy_ friend," he laughs, liking how the man squeezes him tighter.

"Hi, Patrick," he says, joining in with the waving, so that the two of them look like a family photo. "I'm sexy friend, nice to meet you."

And it's so funny that they both burst out into fits of laughter, leaning into each other and guffawing with their whole bodies. "Come on," Pete splutters, dragging Gabe by his forearm out of the living room, "you're down for sex, right?" he stage-whispers.

The taller man gives Pete's ass a squeeze, and tries to kiss his cheek, but misses and gets his eye instead. "Yeah," he slurs, a lopsided smile making Pete go weak at the knees. "Bedroom?"

Nodding enthusiastically at nothing in particular, he points up the stairs, and if it wasn't for the banister, Pete's sure they'd never have made it up alive. They can hardly keep their hands off each other as they fall through the bedroom door and exchange sloppy kisses and drunken smiles.

And by god, Pete needed the sex. Sure, this guy didn't really go out of his way to make Pete feel good, and he was a little rougher than Pete would tolerate if he was sober, but he's too out of it to really care. He likes being wanted, and he feels like Gabe wants him, even if the dude does fall asleep pretty much straight away.

He's lying naked on the bed, face down in the pillows, and Pete thinks he looks even more handsome when he's sleeping. _Sleeping beauty._

Despite this, Pete doesn't know what to do with himself. Yeah, he could sleep too, but there's still booze in his blood and he wants to make the most of feeling this alive. And he's really hungry, too, the pasta seems ages ago now, and he feels like he lost weight during the fucking.

Clothes seem so cumbersome at the moment, but some voice of sobriety in the back of his mind tells him he's gotta put _something_ on. He fishes out the baggiest trousers he owns, and the biggest jumper, and wanders out of the bedroom, still fumbling with the sleeves.

He's humming quietly to himself as he rummages through the fridge; _lettuce? No. Butter? No. Yogurt? Nope. Orange juice? Perfect._

He doesn't even really like orange juice, he just buys it as an alternative fruit consumption method, and he knows it won't cure his hunger, but right at this moment, the glass he pours himself seems like the answer to all of his problems.

It tastes _amazing._ Did it always make him feel this complete? He decides to drink nothing but orange juice from now on, just to compensate for his lack of appreciation prior to this moment. Sipping at it so as to savour it, rather than down it all in one go, he wanders out of the kitchen, and towards wherever that noise he's just noticed is coming from.

And there's the kid, still hunched up at the end of the couch, the cat curled next to him. And Pete just _really_ wants to talk, can't think of anything better to do than drink his juice and converse with a tramp.

"Hey," he grins, flopping down so close to Patrick that he very nearly sits on the cat; Sam makes an alarmed noise and jumps off the couch just before Pete's full weight comes down upon him. And now Patrick's looking at him as if he just killed a unicorn. "Sorry," he says, trying to wipe the smile off his face, and failing.

"Um," Patrick hums uneasily, glancing down at their practically conjoined legs. "Hey."

"What'cha watching," Pete slurs, not bothering to look at the TV.

"Uh...I don't know," Patrick says, fumbling with the remote until he finds the _Info_ button. "Oh, uh... _Titanic."_

Pete laughs at the way the kid's looking at the screen, his eyebrows knitted together and his teeth nibbling at his lips. "You never seen it before?"

"Yeah, 'course I have," he snaps, shrugging.

Pete smiles at him, leaning a bit further towards him as they watch Kate and Leonardo kiss passionately. He's still sort of high from the sex, and far from sober, so he thinks it's alright to rest his head against Patrick's shoulder, just for support.

The boy doesn't move, but Pete can feel eyes on him. He doesn't much care, though, as he's just re-realised how cute Leo is in this film.

"Why do people do that?" Patrick asks suddenly, pointing at the happy couple on the screen.

"What, kiss?" Pete asks, shifting his head to look at the kid, who's watching the TV with wide eyes.

"Uh...yeah," he replies uncertainly. "Kiss."

Shrugging, Pete thinks about it. "I guess...it feels good. And it means they like you, probably. But mostly it feels good." More than good. Amazing, especially combined with alcohol.

"Oh," Patrick says simply, knotting his fingers together.

"What, you never been kissed?" Pete laughs, screwing up his face.

"Yeah, loads of times," Patrick spits, folding his arms.

"Liar," Pete giggles, forgetting his fear of being beaten up. "You've seriously never kissed anyone?"

His question is answered by the way the kid just glares straight ahead.

"Wanna know what it feels like?" Pete smirks, elbowing Patrick lightly, his grin taking up his whole face.

The boy opens his mouth to say something, then decides against it, resorting to just staring at Pete, frowning. And Pete knows, he _just knows,_ that Patrick was about to say _yes._ His drunk brain has learnt to focus on people's bodies rather than their words, and curiosity is written all over the kid.

"Go on," Pete encourages, shifting closer to him. "Just one little kiss?" he pouts, clasping his hands together in front of him. He's never been one to pass up a kissing opportunity. At least, not when he's drunk.

"What the fuck has happened to you?" Patrick says, but it's not filled with quite as much acid as he's come to expect from the kid.

"Drunk too much," he giggles, shameless. And if he'd have been any less drunk, he'd have abandoned this, but he misses Gabe's kisses, and right now, persuading Patrick to make out with him seems like the best idea in the world.

"Where's your friend?" Patrick asks, and _god,_ Pete's so _tired_ of all these questions.

"You should learn to shut up," he smiles, his hand finding its way to Patrick's knee.

"Fuck off, shithead, don't fucking tell me what-" the boy starts, cut off mid-rant as Pete dives at his face and pecks him on the lips.

Sitting back to admire the view, Pete waits for the kid to say something, a smug smile on his face. That _definitely_ shut him up.

"What the fuck was that?" Patrick snaps indignantly, wiping at his mouth like a child attacked by a lipstick-smothered great-aunt.

 _That's not right,_ Pete thinks vaguely. _Gabe didn't do that._ "A kiss?"

The kid makes a face at him, and Pete feels his stomach tighten a little.

"What? What was wrong with that?" he asks, not bothering to hold back the offence from his voice.

Patrick shrugs. Or was it a shudder? "I don't know. Just...weird. Not as good as I thought." he turns his attention back to the film, and Pete recoils.

"Hey," he snaps, crossing his arms and setting his jaw. "I'll have you know I'm the best kisser this side of the Thames."

Patrick raises his eyebrows as if that's really nothing to shout about, and at that moment, Pete's never felt so insulted, staring at the kid with all the annoyance he can possibly muster. _Right, that's it._

"Turn off the TV," he orders, pointing to the remote in Patrick's hand.

"Why?"

Pete huffs impatiently. "Just do it!"

The kid looks at Pete for a few seconds, then blinks. The TV turns black, and the room's left dark and silent. _Perfect,_ Pete thinks, because now it's a challenge. And he's gonna make sure Patrick loses.

"Right, now, close your eyes," he says, flapping a hand at the boy.

"Fuck off." Patrick asserts, folding his arms and sticking out his chin.

"I'm not gonna try anything, just do it!" Pete says again, starting to lose his patience. He's not used to this much coaxing when it comes to kisses. "It's my house," he reasons, poking Patrick in the leg.

The scowl on Patrick's face would be enough to send Pete running if he was sober. But he's not, and it only widens his smile, the glee at getting his own back for all those rude remarks.

Finally, when Pete's just about to cover the kid's eyes himself, Patrick lets his eyes fall shut, a hand tight on his knee. "Good," Pete breathes, gaze reading the map of the boy's face, the line of his jaw, the generous curve of his bottom lip. _That's the one to go for,_ Pete decides, then shifts closer.

Tilting his head, he leans in and presses his lips against Patrick's, his mind calculating his movements, down to the last flick of his tongue. And _yes,_ there will be tongue.

Patrick shifts a little, his mouth unmoving, then, very gradually, he starts to push back a little, and doesn't flinch when Pete brings a hand up to his jaw, guiding him the right way. Pete's usual technique is to go soft at first, reel them in, then crank it up a notch, so he starts to kiss a little harder, waiting for Patrick to pull back, but he doesn't. _I win,_ Pete thinks, _I win so much._

Now, for the victory lap. He flaps his tongue rather inelegantly against the seam of the kid's lips, and they fall apart, letting Pete explore the inside of Patrick's mouth. He tastes of tomato sauce and something sweeter, which Pete can't quite – Shreddies. He's kissing a boy living off Shreddies.

He's kissed worse, though, and although Patrick's tongue is just sort of twitching in his mouth, Pete can't quite bring himself to stop. The kid's certainly got the lips for it; Pete can feel them, plump and pushing against his own, same as he can feel Patrick's breath on his face, pasta-scented.

It's beginning to get a little spit-drenched for Pete's liking, though, what with him already being considerably sloppier than usual, and Patrick's tongue being all over the place, so Pete decides he's proved his point well enough, and pulls back. He raises an eyebrow at the kid, crossing his arms and nodding.

" _Not as good as I thought_ my arse," Pete tuts, rolling his eyes.

He settles back down in his seat, reaching for the remote where it's still clasped in Patrick's hand, and the light of the TV returns. The kid doesn't even punch him.

In fact, the kid doesn't seem to be doing much; Pete makes absent comments on the film, gradually sinking further into Patrick's shoulder, telling him not to watch because the sad bit's coming up. He ends up altogether forgetting about the kiss, now far more interested in finishing his orange juice and just how comfortable his bed's going to be when he finally falls into it, and reminding himself that he likes this jumper and he should wear it more often.

Thoughts of bed become more and more prominent as his eyelids side with gravity, and there's a funny smell coming from his mouth. The stairs seem miles and miles away, and Pete spends most of the midnight news debating whether or not Patrick's shoulder is a worthy substitute, but bones, even fleshy bones, can't hold a candle to one of Pete's lovely cuddly pillows.

"Right, I'm off," he says, at last, levering himself away from Patrick with a yawn. "You ought'a go to bed too, it's late." Pete's too sleepy to even feel ashamed of his definition of _late._

When Patrick doesn't say anything, Pete glances at him, wondering if tiredness got the better of him too, but the kid's still awake, and watching him. It's a little creepy, actually. 

"You want anything?" Pete asks, if only to stop that weird stare.

Patrick opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. "No."

"Why, what were you gonna say?" Pete laughs a little, patting his shoulder.

"Nothing." And there's that glare again.

"Liar."

"Fuck off."

Pete giggles, shaking his head at the kid. "You're silly," he smiles, sobriety still nowhere to be seen. Perhaps that's why his mind makes this particular leap. "You want a goodnight kiss?" he jibes, poking the kid's arm, wanting to make the most of his embarrassment.

He laughs even harder when the kid nods.

"Fine, fine, if you insist," he says dramatically, rolling his eyes. He doesn't bother with the eye-closing business this time, and simply leans over, grabs Patrick's face, and crushes their mouths together. He's too tired for tongues, so he just toys with the boy's lips, taking the bottom one into his mouth, nipping at it with his teeth. He briefly registers the touch of fingers on his face, and a hand curled loosely in his jumper.

With a wet noise, he pulls back, and the kid's arms fall back to his lap. "Okay," he says, in confirmation of something or other. The kid only blinks at him, skin pale in the light of the TV, lips fluttering. "You're quite pretty, actually," Pete muses, nodding in approval, then wondering if he said it out loud. The room sways a little. _Now it's definitely sleep time,_ he thinks, patting Patrick's knee lightly, and getting clumsily to his feet. "Night night, then."

He shoots finger guns at the kid, and a grin for good measure, then wanders in the direction of the stairs, vaguely reminding himself of the guy in his bed, and the fact that he needs to buy more orange juice.  

He's relatively sure he won't regret this tomorrow morning. 


	6. I Wish You Were More Like Your Cat

Patrick's never actually looked up the phrase _over the moon,_ but he's pretty sure it describes how he's feeling.

He goes to bed in a daze, curling up tight under the covers, careful not to knock Sam from his perch at the end of the bed. All he can think about is kissing.

From what he's gathered so far, _kiss_ is the noun, and the plural will perhaps be something like _kisses,_ or _kissi,_ then _to kiss_ is the verb, _kissed_ being the past participle, and also the adjective, _kissing_ being the present participle. He really wants to try it in a sentence, break in this brand new word. But maybe not as much as wants to carry out the word again.

It felt _so good._ It's like nuzzling, but closer, with more... _feeling,_ more contact, and Patrick got this bubbly sensation in his stomach which, even the next morning (afternoon), hasn't gone away. He'd seen people touching mouths like that before, but he'd never quite known what it meant. _He's_ never been touched like that before.

When he wakes up, still not quite believing he's here, in this fucking comfortable bed with the sunlight streaming in around him, he can still feel lips pressing against his own, can remember the strange feeling of someone else's tongue in his mouth. It's weird to think that he actually _liked_ something like that, it would've been repulsive if you'd described it to him twenty-four hours ago.

He lies awake for a little while, putting his fingers to his mouth, trailing them across his tongue, trying to replicate the feeling. It doesn't really work, even if he closes his eyes. The back of his hand doesn't do it either, doesn't quite have the same feeling of Pete's lips. He wonders if Pete would like it if they did it again, so Patrick can savour it this time, learn how to do it properly. _And_ Pete said it meant that the person liked you, so does that mean that they're even better friends than they were before? He's not sure.

He can hear voices in the house, one that's Pete's, and the other that belongs to Pete's friend, the one from last night. Patrick saw them kissing, too, so they obviously like each other. Maybe if Pete introduces him, then he could have _three whole actual friends._ That would be _so fucking cool._

There's no weird lava water anymore, so Patrick simply gives the duvet a hug goodbye and hops out of bed, digging his hands into his eyes and trying to keep his balance as he searches for some kind of clothing. There's only Pete's jumper from a couple of days ago, and it's a little bit smelly, but Patrick figures he could still get a good three or four wears out of it before it becomes anywhere near toxic. He shoves it over his head, and stumbles out of the door, wondering whether Pete's bought any more of the tiny crunchy tapestries.

-

After breakfast (he ended up eating something called a nectarine, which he thought was an apple, but turned out to be a lot squishier and contain a wooden pebble, like some sort of tooth-cracking prize), Patrick doesn't really do much other than hover. Pete and his friend are occupying the couch, and apart from a brief _good morning,_ hasn't said a word to Patrick.

He thinks about joining them, introducing himself and whatever the fuck you're supposed to do, but he thinks he'll probably learn more if he just listens. Sitting himself down on the kitchen floor, with Sam for company, he watches them, seeing the way Pete's face lights up when the other man says something funny, how sometimes he smiles and sometimes he giggles and other times he nearly falls off the couch from laughing.

They kiss, sometimes, too. Patrick's beginning to see how natural it is for Pete to close his eyes, how it doesn't look like he's even concentrating, like it's an instinct. Maybe some people like kissing more than others. Maybe some people don't like it at all. Sometimes the man kisses Pete's hands, or his cheek, not just his lips. Is it still called kissing if it's not two mouths? Patrick wishes he knew.

He wants to talk to them, he really does, but it never seems like the right time to interrupt, they're always talking about relationships or politics or the multitude of other things which Patrick doesn't understand. And he sure as fucking hell doesn't wanna look stupid.

It's not quite working out for him, though, as he's sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor with a cat on his head. He tried to encourage it _not_ to start eating his hair, but Sam didn't really give him much of a choice in the matter. Besides, maybe that's what cats eat.

But, of course, this is the moment Pete and his friend choose to migrate from the couch to the kitchen, and Patrick has to quickly lift the creature off himself and hop to his feet, flopping into the nearest chair.

"...so, we could go out somewhere, if you wanted," Pete says, leaning against the kitchen counter without so much as a glance at Patrick. "There's a Costa just down the road, then we could go for a walk?" _Costa. A shop that sells drinks,_ Patrick remembers triumphantly. 

The man smiles. "Yeah, sounds good. I'll buy," he adds, patting his pocket. He's probably got some money in there. Patrick wonders how much. 

"Oh, well, no, you don't have to, really-" Pete says, his hands doing a sort of flappy thing.

"No, I insist," the man says, holding out a hand, which Pete takes, grinning. "You bought last night, anyway."

"True," Pete shrugs, and snags his keys off the counter, heading for the door.

Patrick only catches snippets of their conversation before the door slams shut, leaving him alone. Frowning at the door, he pretends not to feel a little bit sad that Pete's gone, and instead wonders what the hell the man meant by _bought last night._ Is there a missing noun in that sentence? People miss out words sometimes, and it's fucking annoying. Or perhaps there isn't anything missing, maybe Pete actually bought last night, maybe people have actually figured out how to buy and sell stretches of time. Patrick wouldn't be surprised. People will sell anything, even their own organs. Yuck.

He doesn't quite know what to do with himself when Pete's not around; he feels a little awkward in someone else's house, especially a house where everything's so fucking _shiny._ He feels like he shouldn't touch anything, but he does anyway, drawing pictures on the fridge with the smudge of his fingers. He could leave, if he wanted – there's a pile of money on the counter, and plenty of food and clothes he could swipe – but he really _really_ doesn't want to. More than anything, Pete's house has locks on all the doors, so no-one can get in without a key.

That's the best thing about it: the security. The feeling of going to sleep every night knowing that he's safe. For now, anyway.

The television proves to be a continual source of entertainment for Patrick; every time he turns it on, there's something different to see. There're programmes about people asking other people questions until they win some money, others about people looking round lots of houses and criticising all of them for pretty fucking stupid reasons, in Patrick's opinion. There's also this one where people put helmets on and try to run across big foam structures and inevitably fall off into a trough of mud. But at the moment, he's watching a show about some people who sit in a shop and say things that he doesn't understand, but are apparently funny.

It's a bit unnerving, because he can hear laughter at the jokes, but it's not coming from anyone on the screen, like there's some big crowd of people sitting behind them and listening in on their conversation. He wants to try and warn them that they're being watched, but he doesn't know how.

He notices it now, how often they kiss. How much they enjoy it, too, smiling at each other, touching each other on the face and the chest. He's gotta try that again.

And seeing as Pete didn't seem to appreciate the hug, Patrick needs to try something else to make sure that they're friends. If he kisses Pete – properly this time, not stupid and fucking scared like last time – then Pete will know that Patrick is his friend, too, and not just the other way around. He figures it's the only way Pete might let him stay.

Do people always have to be sitting down when they do it? Handshakes are generally done standing up, and all the kiss.. _es?_ Patrick's ever seen have been when people are sitting. So he's gotta wait 'til Pete's sitting down. _And_ he's gotta remember that noses are a thing, so he should tilt his head. And he needs to close his eyes.

Patrick spends the rest of his time alone attempting to kiss the cat, who puts up with Patrick's clumsy pecks on the head for approximately seven minutes before finally swiping a paw round the boy's face.

"Ouch, what the fuck?" he exclaims, jabbing a finger at Sam.

The cat simply puffs an irritated noise at him and stalks down the other end of the couch.

"Hey, it wasn't _that_ bad!" he snaps, crossing his arms and sticking out his chin. "Was it?"

Shit, maybe it was. He frowns into his lap, hands fidgeting and teeth chewing on his lips.

 _But,_ he thinks suddenly, _but cats don't have lips like humans._ Cats nuzzle things with their noses, cats purr, but cats aren't meant to kiss. But Patrick likes to nuzzle things, Patrick likes to purr. Maybe Patrick isn't meant to kiss either.

Sighing, he looks up at Sam, who's watching him pitifully from the arm of the sofa. "I'm sorry, okay?" he says, reaching an arm out towards the cat. "I'll let you eat my hair, if you want."

The animal narrows its eyes at him, then haughtily slinks back towards him, letting him tickle its ears.

"Are we still friends?" he asks quietly, wondering whether Sam will tell Pete about the kissing. _Only for humans, only for humans._

The cat watches him steadily for a few tense seconds, finally blinking its big green eyes and beginning to purr. Patrick lets out a relieved sigh, shuffling a little closer to the creature.

"Okay, good."

-

When Pete gets through the door, Patrick is ready. Or at least, he tells himself that he is. He has to fit in, has to be fucking _normal_ for once, and do this.

He's still on the sofa, with Sam next to him, tail in his lap for moral support. He turns off the TV, watching as the tall friend stays close to Pete, laughing at something or other. They're holding hands, too. Patrick doesn't really know what that means yet, although he's seen people holding the hands of children as they walk along the road, so perhaps it's a safety measure.

They don't see him, Patrick supposes, because they head for the kitchen, staying in Patrick's line of sight as they lean against the black counters, smiling as they talk. Pete walks round to the other side of the counter, putting something in the bin, then leans opposite his friend, their faces close together. The taller one says something, and Pete smiles, then they lean closer and touch their mouths together, breathing laughs for a few seconds after.

Pete's not sitting down, though. Maybe that's why they're laughing, because they did it wrong. There's a stool thing behind Pete, but he's only hovering around it, putting his elbows on the counter and – _yes!_ Now he's sitting down. Patrick takes a deep breath.

He gives Sam a last pat, and gets to his feet, momentarily panicking when he realises that there's nowhere for him to sit, then pushing the thought aside with a shake of his head and a muttered _fuck it._

Wandering towards the pair, he licks his lips, wishing they didn't feel quite so dry, and hoping they know what they're doing.

Pete glances at him as he approaches, his eyebrows rising a little and his sentence tailing off. "Uh, hi, Patrick," he says, smiling a little. "Do you, uh, need something?"

Patrick decides that replying might throw him off, so he just clenches his fists and marches round the side of the counter, trying to work out when exactly he should close his eyes.

Pete turns back to his friend, opening his mouth to speak. "So, Gabe, this is Patrick, and, uh, he's...um..." he breathes a laugh, glancing at Patrick's nearing form, "what are you doing?"

He can't put this off any longer. Grabbing the edge of the counter to steady himself, he lurches at Pete, very nearly head-butting him, but managing to catch his lips first, slamming his eyes shut tight and crushing their mouths together as firmly as he can. Pete doesn't seem to be pushing back, so Patrick pushes for him, leaning further forward to compensate for Pete's leaning away.

It lasts for around three seconds, and Patrick's feeling pretty fucking good, because he actually fucking _did_ it, and he and Pete are even better friends, and he remembered to close his eyes and tilt his head and _everything_.

The next things he feels are Pete's hands, scrabbling at his chest, before finally getting a firm grip on his jumper and hauling him away.

He stumbles backwards, breaking the kiss and pulling his eyes open. Pete doesn't look very happy. That's not right.

"What the _fuck?"_ Pete's friend – Gabe – exclaims, standing straight up and frowning. Frowning a _lot._

"Patrick, what the hell was that?" Pete's asking, no longer sitting down but looking sort of – oh. Horrified.

Suddenly there's lots of shouting. It all seems to be aimed at Patrick, who's left wondering what he did wrong, their words ringing in his ears, making him want to run away somewhere. Gabe's eyes are flicking between them, and he seems to be angry at Pete, too, saying things like "Are you two _together?"_ and "What the fuck, you told me you were single!", and Pete's alternating between yelling at Patrick and pleading with Gabe, "I promise, I don't know why he did that!" and "Why the hell did you do that, what on earth are you playing at?!" and all Patrick can see is the anger on their faces and he's so fucking confused and hurt and annoyed and he _just doesn't understand._

Finally, _finally,_ they stop, their eyes trained on him, and for a few seconds, the silence is worse than the shouting. Then the tall man crosses his arms roughly, and growls, "just explain."

Pete sighs shortly, turning to Gabe. "Listen, I am _so_ sorry for...whatever that was, I swear to god, we're not together, I honestly don't know why he did that. Why the hell _did_ you do that?" Now he's looking at Patrick.

The boy opens his mouth to shout, to swear at Pete and his stupid fucking friend, but he doesn't know what to say.

Pete speaks for him, though. "He's never done that before, honestly. And he won't do it again, will you?" the man snaps, raising his eyebrows at Patrick.

The boy senses that the answer to that question is supposed to be _no,_ so he simply snarls a "Fuck you" at Pete, crossing his arms.

Pete's mouth opens, then closes, his eyebrows still bunched together. Then, he just sighs, glancing at Gabe and smoothing out his shirt. "Okay, so, as I was saying," he starts, gesturing at Patrick, "this is Patrick, and he's my...uh, roommate, I guess. He's a little, um..." he tails off, shooting a meaningful glance at Gabe and twirling his finger around by his ear.

Whatever this gesture means, the tall man seems to understand, nodding in realisation, and casting a rather pitying look at Patrick. He moves around the counter, standing over the boy and smiling too wide.

"I'm Gabe," he says, patting his own chest, "and you shouldn't kiss Pete, okay?" he croons, shaking his head slowly, speaking as if...well. As if Patrick's stupid. "Do you understand?"

Patrick stares up at him, at his raised eyebrows and fake smile, the way he's leaning over him and looking down on him. _Fucking dickhead_. He decides not to give the man the courtesy of an answer.

Gabe glances at Pete, then back at Patrick, tilting his head to the side. "I said, do...you...understand?"

And the way he's looking at Patrick, like he's got no brain at all, like he's some dumb animal, like he's nothing, it makes him feel ten times smaller. And ten times angrier. So he does the first thing that comes to mind. He looks the man straight in the eyes, draws back a fist, and punches him square in the face.

Patrick briefly registers the crunch of Gabe's nose, before the shouting starts again.

"Oh my god!" Pete gasps, springing towards them whilst Gabe's hands fly over his face and he yells lots of different swear words at Patrick.

"You little shit!" he shrieks, the words distorted by his hands, and the steady flow of blood that's seeping between his fingers. "You broke my fucking nose, he broke my fucking nose..." he says, his face screwed up in pain, his breathing loud and uneven.

"Oh god," Pete cries, running his fingers through his hair and looking around frantically for something or other. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

Patrick just sort of stands there, shaking out the pain in his hand, watching them both panic, watching Pete thrust kitchen roll at Gabe and wonders if he maybe shouldn't have done that. But the guy was a fucking dick. He opens his mouth to say something, not to apologise, obviously, but maybe to explain himself, when Pete whips round to face him.

He expects reassurance, at worst constructive criticism, but all he gets is hissing malice when Pete says, "What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

And Patrick doesn't know. He's been asked that question a lot of times by a lot of different people, and he doesn't fucking know the answer.

"Fuck you!" he yells, hands in fists, and storms from the room, hating stupid fucking Gabe and stupid fucking Pete and every stupid fucking kiss that's ever been exchanged, and wishing his voice hadn't cracked on that last word.

He runs to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him and throwing himself down on the bed, pummelling the pillow as if it was Gabe's face all over again. He decides he fucking hates all people ever, and that's that.

-

Over the course of the next half hour, Patrick hears Gabe's cries of pain gradually fade to whimpers, then manages to catch most of Pete explaining to Gabe that Patrick is fucked in the head. Patrick discovers that it hurts to be talked about like that. And to think, he thought he made a friend. Maybe he _is_ stupid.

Pete eventually concludes that the bleeding should've stopped by now, and Gabe demands to be taken to hospital. Fair enough, really, the way Patrick felt his nose break, it's probably quite fucked up. Fucking _good._

So they bustle out the house, leaving him alone again.

He doesn't feel like watching TV. He doesn't even feel like letting Sam in; the cat's been scratching at his door for a while now. He just sits on his bed and tries to understand what he did wrong, and whether Pete will kick him out. He probably will. And it'll be back to the cold concrete and the stupid fucking teenagers that steal his fucking stuff.

He'll be damned if he's gonna fucking _cry_ about it, though, so he just fists his hands in the sheets and screws his eyes shut until the tears go away.

He's not sure how much time has passed when he hears a key in the door. There's no voices, just a lot of sighing, and only one set of footsteps. The door slams shut, harder than it usually does. Patrick sits up, wondering whether he should be scared or worried or both.

Sliding off the bed, he creeps towards the door, trying to plan what he might say, whether to make excuses or not. When he opens it, Sam's not outside anymore. He pokes his head out, eyes trained on the lounge. Pete is nowhere to be seen, but the couch is just out of view, so Patrick decides to head for that.

He pads down the hall and stands awkwardly under the lounge archway, and sure enough, Pete's on the couch, with his head in his hands. That can't be good.

Shifting from one foot to the other, he hopes Pete hears the sounds of the fabric and spares Patrick the task of uncomfortably coughing until his presence is known. And _oh, fuck,_ he does hear. He looks round at Patrick, eyes wide.

"You're _still here?"_ he says, exasperated.

Patrick doesn't know what else to do but nod.

"Oh my god," the man sighs, digging his fingers into his eyes. He stands up, then turns to face Patrick, a tired look on his face. "I just spent _two and a half hours_ waiting at that hospital. He had to have _surgery."_

"And then," Pete continues, brighter this time, but Patrick suspects it's sarcasm, "and then afterwards, after I'd cleaned him up and driven him there and waited all afternoon for him, he goes and says _you know what, Pete, I don't think I want to see you anymore._ He said that this _makes things awkward._ Oh, and also on account of my _psychotic room-mate."_

 _Psychotic. S_ uffering from psychosis. Patrick's seventy-five percent sure he's not lost contact with external reality, but then again, Pete might simply be implying that he is crazy. He goes to ask as much, but Pete cuts him off.

"He said he'd call me. Which is just code for, like, _I never wanna see you again_. And I liked him! I actually liked that one. He stayed 'till the morning, we had a nice day, we had stuff in common, he seemed to like me back! The first non-dickhead I meet in six months, and you punched him in the face!" he yells, his voice climbing the octaves.

"I'm not psychotic!" Patrick protests, hoping to god that his voice didn't sound as whiny out loud as it did in his own head.

"Oh, sure, because it's fine to just, like, go around punching people!" Pete snaps, throwing his arms around the place. "And why in heaven's name did you _kiss_ me?!"

Patrick scowls at the floor, biting down on his lip to keep from screaming. "I thought you'd like it."

Pete lets out an exasperated breath, shaking his head at Patrick. "Why would I like it? Why the hell would I want to kiss someone like _you?!"_

And _wow,_ that hurts. That hurts more than most of the other insults that he's had thrown at him, that's like a punch in the face all by itself. He must be delirious from all this rich-people air. He decides he's held in the anger long enough. "Get fucked, you asshole, you kissed me last night!"

"Well, I...uh..." Pete tails off, his mouth forming a hard line across his face. "I was drunk. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes," Patrick spits, swearing to do a lot more than break the nose of the next person who patronises him like that, "it's when people drink too much alcohol and their brains stop working properly." _Ha._

"Well, there you go. If my brain _was_ working properly, I never would have done that! I'm sorry and everything but you can't just kiss people and expect them to be okay with it! Especially in front of my boyfriend!"

Patrick wills himself not to cry under any circumstances. "But you said it meant you liked me! You said-"

"I. Was. _Drunk!"_ Pete yells, "I didn't mean a damn thing I said last night! For god's sake, what's wrong with you?"

The boy snaps his mouth shut, swallowing his retort. So much for anyone ever thinking he's pretty. And there's that question again. The one he doesn't know the fucking answer to.

Pete sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. "Look, I'm sorry," he says, voice carefully restrained, "you just – I can't believe you did that. You broke his nose, Patrick, that's just, like, messed up, and I really liked him and you ruined, like, everything."

Friends don't ruin things. Friends aren't messed up like Patrick is. He thinks about shouting, telling Pete he hates him, and what a fucking dickhead he is, because let's face it, he _is,_ but for some reason, he doesn't feel like putting his fist through the wall like usual. He just feels kinda...sad. "I didn't mean to," he says in a stupidly small voice.

The man huffs a flat laugh through his nose, and fiddles with the cuffs on his shirt, still stained with red. "Yeah. Well. It sorta _looked_ like you meant it. Listen, I think I made a mistake, I don't think I want...well, I don't think it's good for us to...for you to..." he stammers, but Patrick knows what he's trying to say. This is where he's supposed to leave.

 _It was never going to last,_ he tells himself, _it was only for a night, anyway._ The cut on his foot is nothing more than a faded white line, now. "I'm fucking going," he says, not looking at Pete as he starts towards the door, sweeping his hat off the kitchen table.

Pete steps back to let him past. "Look, I'm sorry, I just-"

"Fuck you," the boy sighs, because shouting isn't worth the effort.

"Fine," Pete scowls, recoiling.

Patrick fumbles with the lock on the door for an excruciatingly long couple of seconds, before finally yanking it open. He's reacquainted with the feel of freezing ground beneath his feet, and cold air biting at his cheeks.

He hears Pete say something behind him but slams the door shut anyway, flinching away from it like it might strike out at him. There goes warm beds and hot food and friends. Pete might be a fucking bastard, but he had a nice house, and a nice cat. Patrick decides he hates all people who aren't cats, they fucking steal his stuff and treat him like shit and shout at him for reasons he doesn't understand.

 The sky fades to black around him as he hurries down the road, hands deep in his pockets, wondering if he'll be able to find somewhere safe to sleep. The all-too-familiar feeling of uncertainty curls its fingers around his lungs, the fear of the cold and the darkness.

So here he is again, no food, no blankets, no money, and no shoes. It's going to be a fun night.


	7. After Careful Consideration, I've Concluded That You're Not Normal

Pete doesn't quite know what to do with himself now.

He's staring at the front door, its slam resonating through his house. _He left. He actually left._ Pete actually managed to get the boy out of his house.

 _Yes,_ he said Patrick could stay as long as he wanted, _yes,_ he'd thought he wanted to know more about the kid, but the truth is, he's quite pleased he's finally gone. What he was thinking when he let a homeless person into his house, he'll never know. He's pretty sure he never heard a word of truth from the kid's mouth, which makes him a thief _and_ a liar. Not the type of person he'd like to mix with, thank you very much.

He gets up from the couch, running a hand through his hair before realising his sleeve is still coated in Gabe's blood. He makes a noise of disgust and hops over to the sink, unbuttoning his shirt as quickly as he can and tossing it into the sink. A good soak with some Vanish, that'll do the trick.

Gagging a little at the sight of red stains still on his wrists, he scrubs maniacally at his skin, screwing his face up and tasting bile in the back of his throat. He can't quite believe how much blood he's seen in the last few days. He blames Patrick entirely.

The kid _punched_ the guy. Like, properly whacked him. _Ugh_ , he can still hear the crunch of Gabe's nose. He wonders how a short and kinda chubby boy like Patrick could do so much damage. But then, amazing as Gabe was, and no matter how much Pete resents being dumped by him, he _was_ being kinda patronising. He did talk to Patrick like he was a toddler, and that's not very nice, Pete thinks, truthfully. The punch was an overreaction, but maybe a slightly understandable one, too.

 _But he_ kissed _me,_ Pete ponders, as he watches the sink fill with steaming hot water. Why the hell did he do that? _Well,_ says a sly voice at the back of his mind, _you_ did _kiss him last night. Twice._

It's painfully true. He must have been pretty out of it to think that sleeping with Gabe and then kissing a tramp on the lips immeadiately after was a good idea. And _oh god,_ he remembers now. It was the kid's first kiss. Pete took the kid's first kiss, then acted like nothing happened. Oops. That's not very nice either.

 _But he shouldn't have kissed me,_ Pete decides, _that wasn't nice of him._ Except this is a boy who'd never seen a cat before, never eaten pizza, and didn't know what an egg was. Why would he know what kissing is, or what it means? How would he know when and when not to do it?

So now Pete feels guilty. Brilliant. And he's back to the question _where the hell has Patrick come from? Why doesn't he know about basic life things?_ And, in spite of himself, Pete wants to know.

He looks up from his shirt, soaking in the sink, when he hears a scratching noise at the door. Moving round the counter and onto the carpet of the lounge, he sees Sam, pawing at the gap between the front door and its frame. When the cat sees Pete approaching, he lets out a loud _meow,_ looking up at him expectantly.

For all Pete knows, the cat might just want to go outside to pee, or just do whatever cats do when their owners aren't around, but Sam literally never goes out the front door, he uses the cat flap at the back of the house. And maybe it's Pete's guilt talking, but Sam's eyes look pretty accusing at the moment.

"I'm sorry, he's gone," Pete says apologetically, crouching down and stroking the cat gently. "He...uh, he had to leave."

And he's feeling bad for lying to a cat. He's gone insane.

Sam meows again, hopping on his hind legs and clawing the door with both front paws.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? He couldn't stay here. He was gonna have to leave at some point," Pete says, trying to sound sad.

If the cat could have crossed its arms at him, he's pretty sure it would have.

"He punched my friend, okay? He's not as nice as you think he is. I had such amazing sex with that guy," he sighs. "I could've just lost my future husband," he says wistfully, forgetting for a second that he'll never get married.

He sits up against the door for a few moments, and Sam sits beside him, looking up at him with wide eyes which make Pete feel ten times guiltier. It would've been nice, he supposes, to have given Patrick a proper goodbye, wished him luck and all that. And maybe, y'know, given him a bit of money to help him get by.

There's another thing. Patrick walked out of Pete's house with nothing at all. He didn't even take Pete's meticulously positioned twenty-pound notes from the counter, even though he must have seen them. _And_ Pete still has the kid's jeans and hoodie. Patrick's out there in a jumper and pyjama bottoms. Pete doesn't even think he had any shoes on when he left.

And he doesn't have any food. Who knows when he'll get money. He's at the mercy of kind strangers, who, let's face it, are few and far between in London. And there's all the very _un_ kind strangers too, the ones who might steal his things, or stab him or rape him or kidnap him. A strange boy like him, who doesn't know much about the world, he'd be so easy to take advantage of. He could so easily fall into the hands of the wrong people.

Pete's heard about things like that, news stories and documentaries about kids who get wrapped up in gangs, drugs, all that crazy stuff, and although Pete might initially have thought Patrick was one of those kids, it doesn't seem like he is. Not yet, anyway.

He stands up quickly, peering out of the window. It's pretty much dark, and Pete feels a pang of guilt in his chest when he thinks about Patrick having to sleep out there, in the cold. It's forecast to rain tonight, too. The kid doesn't even have a blanket to sleep under.

Pete sighs, because between his own guilt and the pleading look in the cat's eyes, Pete knows where this is going. Sure, he could probably make it up to himself, donate to some homeless charities, help out at the community centre, but that doesn't change the fact that he's _thrown a kid out onto the street with nothing but the clothes he's standing in._ He's not Tony Stark anymore, he's a cold-hearted Frost Giant. And that makes Patrick Loki. The kid's gonna develop some serious daddy issues, have an identity crisis, and try to destroy Planet Earth. Great.

"Fine!" he half-yells at the cat, who only twitches his ears. "Fine. You win. Let's go and find him."

How the hell he's going to do that, he has no idea, as he hurries over to the laundry and fishes out a clean shirt, fumbling with the buttons. It may only be September, but he still puts on his biggest coat and the nearest woollen hat he sees, because a) he thinks he feels the cold more than other people do, and b) this is _England,_ for Christ's sake.

As soon as he opens the door, Sam hops out of it, pattering down the steps and slipping through the bars of the gate, waiting patiently for Pete to follow him.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, frowning into the chilly breeze, already regretting taking advice from his _cat,_ of all things.

Locking the door behind him and beginning to trudge after the cat, he realises how disastrously tired he is. With yesterday spent working, then getting drunk and having sex, and today being so damn chaotic, it's more activity than he's had in weeks, and he's starting to think his body can no longer handle busyness. One going-outside-thing per day, that should be the rule.

But there he is, at nine o'clock, or is it even nine _thirty,_ following a cat down a road to find a possibly psychotic homeless kid. This is not where he thought he was going in life.

Sam skitters ahead, sniffing at the ground and the sad bits of grass sticking out the pavement and occasionally at passing pedestrians, who look at Pete as if he's clinically insane, but the cat never goes more than fifty feet ahead, always waiting for Pete to catch up. It's a bit unnerving, because up until now he's been resigned to the opinion that his cat is an arrogant prick who forgets who feeds him. The creature's acting so much like a dog, it's an insult to his species.

They reach the end of Pete's road, and head towards the town, where the department stores and off-licences light their way. They check every alley they can see, or at least Sam does, as no amount of money would persuade Pete to go wandering into those hell-holes, he'd probably be stabbed. And he's seen quite enough blood for this week, thanks.

He's in the middle of wondering whether he could get Chinese on the way home, because god knows he deserves it, when he loses sight of Sam. He's been keeping a good distance behind him on the busier street, so he doesn't gain a reputation as the crazy cat man of the area, but between the feet of people ahead, he can't spot the furry PatNav anymore. His first thought is the road, but there are no cat-shaped corpses under the wheels of the passing cars.

He needn't have panicked, though, as Sam is sitting at the entrance to a dark space next to the pizza place, with an expression like an exhausted mother-of-three. Pete winds his way over to the alley, where the street light bleeds into the darkness. He can just about make out a large, square bin, about near the front of the alley, and sees more streetlights winking from the far end. Sam flicks his tail, and ventures into the shadows.

 _This must be it,_ Pete thinks. Trust Patrick to choose a pizza place to camp out next to. He really _really_ hopes there's no murderers lurking in the darkness, this has already been a bad enough day.

His feet stumble on the scruffy tarmac as he tip-toes after Sam, eyes adjusting from the bright lights of the street to their faded remnants. Through the noise of passing cars, he can hear a voice.

"...you can't be here, I don't live with you anymore. Well, I'm sorry too, but it's Pete's house, and he told me to leave...go back to him, there's food there."

Patrick's thankfully quiet and rather soft tone is immediately recognisable; when he's not swearing, the boy's actually quite well-spoken, a pleasant south-eastern English accent making his voice unexpectedly delicate, Pete thinks fleetingly. His father would've approved.

"I told you, go!" the boy whisper-shouts, and Pete hears a rustle from behind the bin, and a loud meow. "Just go, alright, I – shit, someone's coming." He hears a sharp intake of breath.

Deciding he ought not to creep up on the kid and scare the living hell out of him, he peers around the edge of the bin, careful not to touch the grimy plastic. "Patrick?"

The boy's huddled in the corner between the bin and the wall, various bits of cardboard laid over him as a sort of patchwork blanket, with Sam trying to worm his way into Patrick's lap. It's not even clean cardboard, either, if Pete's nose tells him correctly; the bin reeks of rotten things and the box over Patrick's knees is smudged with...well, _something._ The kid's toes peek out from under him, one hand pushing Sam away, the other clutching a sheet of newspaper to his chest.

He looks up when he hears his name, curling tighter into the corner and pulling the newspaper up to his chin. The brim of his hat obscures his face, but Pete just _knows_ the kid's wearing his usual terrifying scowl.

"What the _fuck_ do you want?" he scathes, and Pete contemplates just giving up on this and leaving the kid to suffer.

"I just, uh -"

"If you're here for your fucking clothes back, you can't have them," Patrick asserts, sticking out his jaw and crumpling the newspaper where his fingers are clenched around it.

"No, no, I, uh," _does_ _he_ _really think_ _I'm_ _that cruel?_ "well, I just...listen, I'm sorry, about, about earlier. You don't have to sleep out here tonight, you can come back to mine."

Pete's not exactly sure what he's expecting, maybe an enthusiastic hug or Patrick falling at his feet and sobbing with gratitude, but it's not what he gets.

"Why?" Patrick barks.

At a loss for words, Pete's mouth flaps. "Well, I – I just, I mean, I didn't want-"

"You hate me."

"No, no," _yes I do yes I do yes I do "_ no I don't. Of course I don't hate you," Pete says quickly, trying to believe it. The memory of hearing Gabe's noise break makes that quite difficult.

"Yes you do. You shouted. I'm stupid and you're clever and that's why I sleep out here and you sleep in there," the kid spits, folding his arms and resting his chin on them.

Pete's just about to tell him _no, the reason I sleep in there is that I had the good sense to get a job and make something of my life, unlike you, who will probably be arrested in the near future,_ but stops himself when he realises that he doesn't actually know the specifics of why the kid's homeless. He'll have to ask that next time he's feeling ballsy.

"You're not stupid," Pete says unconvincingly. "And I only shouted because...well, I was a bit angry at you for hitting Gabe. But that doesn't mean I hate you." A _bit_ angry. Understatement of the century.

Patrick looks up at Pete, mouth still turned down at the corners, but his tone a little softer. "So...we could still be friends?"

Pete breathes a laugh, finding it rather funny (and bordering on _cute..._ yikes) how the boy utters the word _friend_ like it's some coveted title he can only dream of. He'd be a real asshole if he said no to that. "Yeah, sure. We're friends."

With a surge of confidence, he offers a hand out to Patrick, putting on a hopeful smile. _If I smile, maybe he won't swear at me,_ he thinks. But the boy simply looks at Pete's hand, that increasingly familiar look of confusion crossing his face.

Pete wriggles his fingers, trying to be encouraging, and it nearly works, as Patrick reaches out his own hand and extends it towards Pete, briefly touching their fingers together. He looks up at Pete, who's torn between explaining that he only wants to help Patrick up and simply continuing to look reluctantly amused.

Patrick must see that this isn't what he's supposed to do, so he tries again, this time grabbing Pete's hand and shaking it lightly. Pete suppresses a laugh when he sees how proud of himself the kid looks.

Pride soon disappears, though; when Pete's hand remains outstretched, Patrick frowns again, head tilted to one side, deep in thought. _I'll just let him struggle a tiny bit longer,_ Pete thinks, as he watches.

Patrick ends up slapping Pete's hand as hard as he can, causing the older man to reel back in pain, clutching his hand to his chest. "Patrick!?" he exclaims "what the hell -"

"I don't know, okay?!" the boy yells, throwing his arms about in frustration. "I don't fucking know what this -" he extends a hand out slowly "-is supposed to do!"

"Okay," Pete sighs, and if his hand wasn't stinging so much, he'd be laughing. "I'm sorry. I only wanted to help you stand. You take my hand, and I pull you up. And, you know, I suppose it's a sign of friendship," he explains, more kindly than even he expected.

"Oh," the boy says, "so I don't shake it?"

"Sometimes you do, if you're meeting someone, or, like, you've agreed a deal, but when you're sitting and someone else is standing, and they offer you their hand, it usually means they want to help you up. Not that you'd always need it, of course, it's just...well, nice, I guess," he shrugs, rather proud of his explanation skills.

"Oh," Patrick says again. "Don't fucking laugh at me," he growls, but Pete doesn't drop the slight smile on his face.

"I'm not, it's just, I dunno, weird to have to explain that," he shrugs. As the kid's expression softens, Pete decides that this social confidence won't last long, and decides to make the most of it. Extending his hand once more, he raises his eyebrows. "So, do you want to try again?"

Patrick's quiet for a few seconds, eyes flicking from Pete to the cat beside him, before finally pushing the cardboard aside and taking hold of Pete's hand. And either Patrick weighs nearly nothing at all, or he doesn't trust Pete to hold him up, because the older man hardly needs to put in any effort as he raises the kid to his feet.

As soon as they're face to face, Pete ventures a small smile, trying his utmost to coax some kind of friendliness out of Patrick. It sort of works, too; once the kid's brushed the dirt off himself, his eyes seem wider and warmer. Not a smile, but dammit he got close.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't disconnect their hands at the first opportunity (who _knows_ where Patrick's been), but notes that the kid doesn't smell particularly vile, and the dim light masks the grime on his (Pete's) clothes. His hat still looks like it's been through a shredder, though.

Patrick steps forward, watching Pete expectantly, but Pete knows he's gotta lay down some rules before he lets the kid back into his house.

"Listen, kid," he starts, folding his arms and drawing himself up to his full, disappointing (yet still taller than Patrick) height. He needs to establish _control,_ needs to make sure the boy knows who's boss. "I need to tell you – no, look, you need to, well. You need to learn a few things," he finishes, wishing he hadn't stammered quite so much, but managing to maintain his tough-guy stance.

Patrick frowns, chewing on his lips, and Pete's braced for swearing and insults but all the boy eventually says is a quiet "I know."

"Well, good," Pete says, nodding curtly and flexing his shoulders like he's seen all the burly American actors do in the films. "Now, first of all, I won't have you hitting people," he states, pointing a finger at the kid. "If you punch anyone else, you're out, okay? Violence is never the answer, there's always a better way to deal with a situation."

"What if they're fucking dickheads?" Patrick asks, the innocence in his voice completely out-of-place.

"Uh," Pete fumbles, breathing a laugh, "even if they're, well, dickheads, as you said, you shouldn't hit them. You could get into trouble, and, y'know, you shouldn't deliberately hurt anyone," he says, wondering if his pacifism is ruining his intimidating speech.

It seems to work, though, because the kid actually looks quite ashamed, hanging his head a little and nodding. "Sorry," he mumbles, shifting his feet as Sam rubs up against his legs.

"That's okay," Pete says calmly, like a nursery teacher to a small child. "Just don't do it again. And, second of all, um," he falters, wondering how best to put this, "you...uh, you shouldn't have kissed me."

"But-"

"Look, I shouldn't have kissed you last night. And I shouldn't have blamed you for it, it was me that was drunk, but, like, today...I mean, I don't know if you know this, but you can't kiss people without asking," Pete asserts, huffing a breath through his nose.

"I didn't know that," Patrick says, pulling his sleeves over his hands. "But why did your friend get so angry?"

"Well," he begins, trying to work out how he can explain the mechanics of relationships in one sentence, "like, usually, when you have a boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever, you only kiss them. It's not nice to kiss other people, they might get jealous. And I think that's what happened with Gabe, he thought that you might be my boyfriend or something."

"But I _am_ your boyfriend," the kid says, and if Pete had had a mouth full of water, he would've sprayed it all over Patrick.

"What?!" he laughs, amused and slightly horrified.

Patrick's eyebrows knit together, and his head tilts to one side. "But...I'm your friend, and I'm a boy, so..."

"Oh, right," Pete smiles, more than a little relieved, "no, no, a boyfriend is like, someone you're attracted to, and you flirt and kiss and stuff. You're my friend, whereas Gabe was – or, I guess, could've been my boyfriend."

"So everyone has a special person that they can kiss?"

Pete frowns, yet again wondering where on earth this kid has come from. "Well, yes, I suppose."

"And Gabe was your special person?"

"Well, maybe," the older man shrugs.

"And I made him leave..." Patrick says softly, his gaze dropping to the ground. "You lost your special person."

Smiling a little, Pete stares at the boy, seeing how sad he looks. _Special person._ To be honest, it's probably better than _boyfriend_. "It's okay, I'll find another."

"You can have more than one?"

Realising that this conversation might go on forever, Pete steps back a bit, motioning for Patrick to follow so they can get out of this dingy alleyway and reduce the chances of being murdered. "Yeah. I mean, some people think that everyone has one special person that they'll spend the rest of their lives with, but sometimes they take a while to find. Gabe obviously wasn't mine."

The boy nods, shuffling after Pete, his bare feet pale against the tarmac. _Shoes._ That's priority number one for the inevitable shopping trip that Pete's going to have to coax the kid into. "Okay. Do I have a special person?"

Pete bites back a smile, aggressively _not_ thinking about how sweet that question is. "I'm sure you do." There's gotta be _someone_ out there who's got a thing for smelly homeless kids with terrifying temperaments.

The boy stays quiet for quite a while after that, stuffing his hands in his pockets as Sam trots along beside them, staying close to Patrick and eyeing Pete as if he's expecting the man to run away at any moment.

He's certainly thinking about it; all this talk about kissing isn't quite how he expected the conversation to progress, and now he's got the kid thinking there's someone out there who wants to be kissed by him. God help the people of London.

"Do you want my jacket?" Pete asks as they continue down the street, just to break the silence. _Please say no._

"No." Patrick spits, scowling. _Ah, what a shame._

But now he's gotta think of something else to say. Should he tell the kid off again? No, that'll end in more blood. Should he change the subject, talk about work? Nah, he doesn't want to hear about that, no-one does. So he simply falls back on the tried and tested subject: _dinner._

"So, uh, I haven't cooked anything tonight, and, uh, it's getting quite late, so, uh, are you okay with a sandwich or something?" he proposes tentatively. Surely the boy must've heard of _sandwiches_.

But Patrick looks deep in thought, eyes to the ground as he pads along beside Pete. _Weird kid._

"Patrick? Um, sandwiches?"

"Can I kiss you?" the boy asks suddenly, and Pete nearly breaks his neck from whipping his head round so fast.

"Um...no?" he squeaks, trying to hide the worst of his freaked-out disgust with a high-pitched laugh.

"Oh," Patrick says, sounding dismayed. "Why not?"

Pete avoids the kid's gaze as they round the corner onto his road, desperately trying to think of a way he can get himself out of this without hurting the kid's feelings or having to kiss him again. The lip-attack he experienced earlier is not something he'd like to relive.

"Uh...well, I don't know if that would be, like...appropriate." Now he sounds like a teacher.

"What d'you mean?" Patrick questions, easily keeping up with Pete's attempts to stay ahead of him.

The older man's not even sure _he_ knows what he means, but decides to try and run with it anyway. "Uh, friends don't usually kiss," he says quickly.

"But there's no boyfriends to get jealous," the boy insists, still merrily trotting along while Pete curses ever meeting him ever.

At a loss for words, Pete lets out a breath, slowing to a stop and turning to face Patrick. "Look, kissing isn't a thing that friends do. I know we did it last night, but-"

"You were drunk, I fucking know," Patrick mumbles, scuffing his feet on the ground.

"Yes. Well." He goes to say something else, something meaner, but thinks better of it.

"You don't think I'm pretty, then," the kid sighs, his shoulders slumping, "I fucking knew it."

 _Did I say that? Oh, shit shit shit. "_ No, no, I mean," Pete stammers, and this is getting more awkward by the second. "I didn't – well, I mean I don't-"

"Fucking forget it," Patrick snarls, beginning to walk away, and if Pete's not mistaken, the boy's rather embarrassed. Good to know he's not the only one.

Finally managing to stop flapping, he puts a hand on Patrick's arm, pulling him back. On this occasion, he decides that flattery might get him somewhere. "No, seriously," he asserts, watching the kid for any sign of Pete-punching intentions, "I mean, I _was_ drunk, so, obviously, I didn't really know what I was saying, but, y'know, I'm sober now, and you are, y'know, pretty," he finishes, attempting a smile.

It's nearly the truth. If he were being brutally honest, Patrick's not especially handsome. The clothes and the hat and the sideburns don't help, obviously, and maybe losing some of that chub wouldn't hurt. But, y'know, he's not _ugly,_ really, he's got quite well-balanced features, full lips and big eyes. He'd be bordering on cute if he wasn't always scowling.

Just as Pete's thinking this, the scowl very nearly disappears, the kid's eyes lighting up and his whole face lifting a little. "Really?"

Not sure if he's relieved or anxious that Patrick believes him, Pete nods as enthusiastically as he dares. This isn't leading the boy on, this isn't _lying,_ it's just being nice. Nothing wrong with boosting Patrick's self-esteem, even if it is on false pretences.

"You're pretty too," Patrick says matter-of-factly, and it's a little scary how much he seems to be _not_ lying.

"Thanks," Pete responds with an uncertain smile. "I'm still not kissing you though."

The kid's smile dissolves. "That's not what I fucking meant! I didn't say it 'cause of that you fucking asshole!"

"Whoa, whoa, shh," Pete hastens to say, conscious of his less-than-friendly neighbours. "I know. Just keep it down, okay?"

" _Fine,"_ he hisses, folding his arms. "I just – I don't get why you don't kiss friends. I thought it meant you liked them?"

Beginning to realise that at this rate, they won't get home before sunrise, Pete sighs heavily. "It does. But sometimes, you like people in a different way, you're attracted to them. That's when you might ask to kiss them. Only if they want to, though, and don't creep up on them like you did to me earlier."

"Sorry. Was that not a good kiss?" Patrick says, eyes wide in the streetlight.

Pete laughs a little, deciding he's just gotta roll with this. "Well, not really. It sort of hurt a bit, to be honest."

"Oh. That's not good."

"No. You've got to be more gentle, slower, you know? You just need more practice," Pete says, making to move away before realising what he just said.

Sure enough, Patrick's still got those wide eyes, and Pete understands now. He wants to learn how to kiss. And he wants Pete to show him. Ah.

"Patrick, I don't know..." he winces, bouncing between relieved that the kid isn't trying to kiss him because he thinks he's his _special person,_ or whatever, and cringing at the idea of teaching someone how to kiss, like this is secondary school all over again.

"Please?" he blinks, trying to catch Pete's gaze. He probably doesn't realise that seeming desperate is _not_ the best way to form a relationship.

 _If I do it, he might leave me alone. Maybe he'll even stop swearing at me,_ Pete thinks. He prides himself on being quite a good kisser. There are worse kiss-teachers out there. And isn't kissing the kid worse than being punched by him? Hmm. Pete's not sure about that one. But he'd rather not get blood on this jacket.

"This isn't gonna be a regular thing, okay?" he says finally, dragging a hand across his face. "Just once."

Patrick nods, already leaning a little towards Pete and lifting his chin. "'Kay."

"Right. Gentle, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Pete nods in response, suddenly aware of the kid's face, all the horrible germs he probably has, the grime in his skin, all the stuff his drunk self failed to notice. "Wait, you don't have any, like, diseases, right?"

Pete's almost ready for the explosion this time.

"You fucking asshole, what the fuck is that supposed to mean, shithead?! What the fuck do you think I am, some kind of-?!"

"Okay, okay," Pete backtracks, "shh. I'm sorry. I was just – sorry." The kid's shouts are still ringing in his ears, and he's pretty sure his face is flecked with Patrick's spit, but it's too late now. Better get this over with.

Reaching out and sweeping the hat off the kid's head, he places his other hand lightly on Patrick's jaw, tilting his face up a little, before diving towards his mouth. Their lips meet gently, only touching at first, before Patrick gains confidence and pushes back a bit, his mouth opening for Pete almost immediately. Pete lets their tongues touch briefly, saving the regret for later.

It's about as short as Pete can get away with, Patrick just nearly starting to relax into it when the older man removes his tongue and pecks him lightly on the lips.

"There you go. That's pretty much it," Pete shrugs, trying not to wince as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. It didn't taste _that_ bad, actually, it's more just the thought of Patrick as a whole that's grossing him out.

Pete watches the kid as his eyes slide open, his lips still slightly parted. He looks a little dazed, to be honest, which sends a little shot of pride through Pete. He knows he's a good kisser.

Patrick doesn't say anything, just takes his hat back and follows Pete as he starts back down the road towards his house, ignoring Sam's confused meows. At least the kid's cool with the gay thing. Pete's had quite a lot of would-be friends who didn't manage to jump that hurdle. Although to be honest, Patrick probably doesn't know what the word _gay_ even means.

He's got to learn some more about this kid. Is English his first language? Is he one of those wild children who's lived in the woods his whole life, only now finding out about civilisation? It sounded like a joke at first, but the more Pete thinks about it, the more plausible it becomes. He can't think of very many alternative explanations that fit with the kid's weirdness.

"Listen," he starts as they reach his door, "before I let you in, I just – I need to know a bit about you. Where are you from, what-?"

"Fuck off," Patrick interrupts forcefully, and _ah,_ Pete thought it'd been too long since he'd had obscenities thrown at him.

"Look, I don't want to be nosy, but you have to understand that I'm letting you into my home, and I need some sort of reassurance that you're not, like, a wanted fugitive," he says, nearly smiling, then dropping it into a frown. " _Are_ you a wanted fugitive?"

"I told you to _fuck off,_ " Patrick spits, pulling his hat down further and backing away from the door.

"Are you a criminal? Well, have you stolen anything other than my fifty quid? Where are your parents? Do they know where you are?" Being a few steps higher up than Patrick suddenly makes the accusations come a lot easier.

"It's none of your fucking business," the boy scowls, and for a fleeting moment he looks absolutely terrified. "I'm gonna do what you fucking asked, I'm gonna learn, so you've gotta not ask questions, 'cause I'm not going to fucking tell you."

A little taken aback, Pete decides upon a softer approach. "Okay, fine, fine. We've all got secrets, I get that. And, I suppose you don't have to tell me if you don't want to," that way, Pete's got plausible deniability when the kid gets arrested, "but I do need to know whether I can trust you not to, like..."

"Steal your stuff and kill you?" Patrick laughs bitterly. "Oh, yeah, 'cause I'm totally gonna murder my first ever friend," he finishes, rolling his eyes. Then he clamps his mouth shut quickly, looking at the floor.

 _Aw. That's sweet,_ Pete thinks, _and also sort of sad._ Good to know he's not gonna be the worst at socialising in the house anymore. "Okay. So, I can trust you?"

Patrick nods, and although Pete doesn't believe him for a second, it's remarkably genuine. "I won't hit anyone or kiss them without asking or murder you, if you don't ask about me."

It's a risky agreement, but what choice does he really have? Plus, it's late and cold and the house is _right there_ if they could just finish this damn conversation. "Deal," he nods, holding out a hand.

Pete watches with a bemused smile as Patrick takes Pete's hand and climbs the steps to reach his level.

"No, no," Pete grins, "this time, you _do_ shake it."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Patrick scolds, this time aimed at himself rather than Pete, then grabs Pete's hand tighter and shakes it vigorously. "Happy now?"

Pete just laughs, putting the key in the lock. He's gradually realising that aggression is just a part of the kid's character, and if he can tolerate that and the lies, they might end up getting on okay. He's also aware that Patrick might possibly have a little crush on him, hopefully in the cute primary-school way and not the court case way. It's a bit creepy, sure, but he's flattered, and it's rather endearing, the way the boy's got so attached.

As they trot through the door, Sam scooped in Patrick's arms, Pete finds himself smiling, wondering how this bizarre person ended up in his life. And although the kid won't say anything about himself, Pete wouldn't be half the lawyer he is without sticking his nose where it's not wanted. He's going to figure Patrick out.  

But first, sandwiches. 


	8. If Your Food Was As Bad As Your Taste In Men, You'd Have Poisoned Us Both By Now

Patrick's heard people talk about heaven, and he's pretty sure this must be it. 

He's managed to avoid being kicked out by Pete for three whole weeks. That's three whole weeks of clean, comfy beds, three whole weeks of hot meals, three whole weeks of being among friends.

Pete's been a bit different since that evening, the one where they kissed on the pavement. They've made good their agreement; the man hasn't asked about Patrick's past, and Patrick hasn't punched anyone. So far, so good. But Pete just seems more... _comfortable,_ less uptight and a bit more smiley than he was before. It's nice. It makes Patrick feel a little less like a freak.

That's another thing, he _looks_ less like a freak, too. He's got his own pyjamas, and his own toothbrush, and a razor and a comb for his hair, _and_ a few more sets of clothes. Patrick may have outwardly loathed shopping with Pete, but on the inside, he found it pretty fucking amazing.

These people can buy _anything._ They can get machines which tell them everything that they could possibly want to know, they can buy little things to put in their ears to make noise which only they can hear, they can even buy better eyesight, better hearing, better smells. Pete barely managed to drag Patrick away from all the little glass bottles; he'd been systematically spraying each one of them around and deciding which one he liked best, but in the end, they all mixed together and it became one huge smelly cloud of toxic gas and Patrick began to feel a little sick.

The shoe shop was weird as hell; there were all these shelves around with only one shoe on them. What's the use in that? And the people were strange. They sat Patrick down and pulled his feet out of his shoes (he'd been flopping around the department store in Pete's old trainers), and started squishing them about, then put them on this measuring thing, nodded and disappeared, coming back with several boxes containing, thankfully, two shoes in each. He left the shop wearing a pair of white striped trainers, all soft on the inside and bouncy on the soles. Pete wouldn't let him get the light-up ones.

Trying on clothes was tricky, to say the least. He had to persuade Pete that _no,_ he doesn't need any t-shirts, and _please please_ only get him baggy jumpers. After a minor freak-out in the dressing rooms and a small number of death threats, Patrick manages to make Pete cave, and he doesn't ask any more questions. _Fuck_ , Pete's questions are going to be the death of him. And Patrick, too. But he doesn't like to think about that.

He thinks about the kiss a lot. It makes him feel warm on the inside, forces smiles out of him in his stormiest moods; the touch of Pete's hand on his jaw, the bump of their noses. He may regret (sort of) what he did to Gabe, but he's beyond glad that Pete didn't have a boyfriend. And a little bit sad that he's only Pete's friend. He reckons he'd make quite a good boyfriend, given the chance.

Although, over the last few weeks, it's become harder and harder to tell whether Pete has found his special person or not; sometimes Patrick sees him kissing someone, and they'll go upstairs, but then he won't ever see the person again. The men Pete brings home always disappear out the door as quickly as they came, without so much as a goodbye. And Pete always seems a little bit sad when they're gone. Sometimes Patrick wonders if Pete even gets to say goodbye to them.

Patrick doesn't like them. Sure, Patrick doesn't like many people, but he _really_ doesn't like _them._ Some of them are okay, at best, but most are just fucking _rude._ They don't ask before they kiss Pete on the lips, they say things that make Pete look unhappy. Special people aren't supposed to do that. Patrick doesn't quite end up hurting any of them, but he gets damn close, especially after that one dude kicked Sam.

"Why do you let them kiss you?" Patrick asks one day, after Pete's stumbled down the stairs only to find his latest friend has vanished.

"What?" the man slurs, slumping into one of the kitchen chairs opposite Patrick. He's wincing at nothing in particular. "I don't know," he says with a shrug.

There are lots of mornings like this. When Pete's been working, he seems tired, and when he hasn't, he still seems tired. Patrick thinks the guy could do with a good night's sleep, but when he tells Pete as much, all he gets is a _pfft_ noise and an eye-roll.

Patrick tries not to think anything of it. After all, it's none of his fucking business what Pete does with all these people, and why he doesn't seem very happy. Patrick doesn't give a shit about this dude, and Pete doesn't give a shit about him, so they're even. That's how this works, they stay out of each other's way. That's the _only_ way this works.

But the boy likes to learn. He likes to watch Pete cooking dinner, remembering what each metal thing does, which ingredients go in when. Pete even let him put the pizzas in the oven one time. He's learnt the names of pretty much all the fruit in the bowl, and most of the stuff in the fridge. Pete's certainly been buying more Shreddies recently.

But the more he learns, the more he sees how people interact with each other. Patrick might not be good at speaking like them, but their body language is something that's becoming clearer and clearer; sometimes Pete will hold a flat palm up and the other person will hit it with their hand and they'll laugh and it's a sign that they've achieved something together. Then there's the smaller things, like the way Pete fiddles with his hair when some of the potential special people are talking to him, the way he looks at the floor and smiles his not-quite smiles.

Now, Patrick wouldn't fucking dare _say_ that he notices any of this – he certainly doesn't want to get shouted at again – but as time goes on, he starts to get to know Pete, albeit from a distance, and understand him a bit more. And the more he understands, the more concerned he becomes.

"So fucking hot," Pete's newest friend says for the billionth time as he grabs Pete's hips and kisses him roughly. Patrick's sitting at the breakfast bar, making up and solving random maths problems on a spare piece of paper, watching the two of them pressed together on the couch.

This new one turned up a couple of nights ago, dragging Pete upstairs as soon as they got through the door. Even then, Pete looked uncertain. The dude's got a mop of light brown hair and a nearly-beard that circles his mouth. It's a bit like the one Patrick remembers Andy sporting sometimes; except, in Patrick's opinion, it looked a lot better on Andy than it does on this guy. He misses Andy a little bit sometimes.

The guy – Patrick thinks his name might be John or Joseph or something – keeps scratching at the hair on his face, then running his fingers through the hair on his head. He's got this mouth that seems to be held in a permanent smirk. But maybe Patrick's just biased.

He tries to keep an open mind, he really does. For the guy's first few visits, he doesn't even swear at him, just keeps his distance, as per usual. There's something wrong, though.

Maybe it's the way Pete tries to pull back too soon from their kisses; maybe it's the way the guy doesn't let him. Maybe it's the way they talk, Pete being ignored while the guy attempts to run his hand as far up Pete's thigh as he can get away with. That's what he's doing now, except this time, Pete's letting him.

"So fucking hot," the guy says again, his hands falling out of Patrick's view and towards a place that makes Pete's smile falter.

"Listen, I -" Pete's cut off by the guy kissing him again, grabbing his jaw and making a groany sort of noise.

"We should go upstairs," the guy says breathlessly, hands clasping Pete's upper arms.

Pete frowns a little, gaze flicking around the room. "It's getting late, I don't know-"

"Come on, baby, let me fuck you," the man interrupts, his fingers creasing the material of Pete's shirt. Now, Patrick's not entirely sure what _fuck_ means when it's not being a swear word (the homeless man who taught him to swear didn't go into detail), but he can guess it's some sort of euphemism. Maybe something to do with the kissing?

It must be, because it's pretty much all they're doing at the moment. It's not gentle, either, like it was when it was Pete and Patrick kissing; the guy's all grabby and pushy and seems intent on shoving Pete as far into the sofa as the cushions will allow.

"Come on, baby," the guy says again (for some reason he refers to Pete as if he's an infant), pulling back and standing up, grabbing Pete by the forearm and hauling him up too.

Pete doesn't nod or give any real confirmation that he wants to go wherever the dude's taking him, but the dude doesn't seem to care. He just tows Pete past the kitchen and towards the stairs. And Patrick could've sworn he saw a little bit of panic on Pete's face.

He ignores it. It's none of his business, anyway.

Chewing absently on the pencil in his hand, he stares down at the equations on the page, letting his mind wander back to proving that if 4ab – 1 divides (4a² – 1)², then a=b, and trying to convince himself he hasn't worked out the solution yet just so he can do it all again. Pete can fight his own battles. The last time Patrick intervened, he got kicked out, anyway. Plus, maybe people like being kissed like that, maybe when the guy says he wants to fuck Pete, it's innuendo for buying him a bunch of flowers.

Patrick knows what flowers are now. He even knows some of the different types, and he likes it when Pete buys some to go in the vase on the kitchen table. He likes to watch them open up and show their colours and all the orange fuzzy stuff inside, then shrivel up and wilt. Luckily, humans don't seem to wilt that fast.

Pete's wilting, though. He wilts on a daily basis. Sometimes he's smiley, but other times he just sighs a lot and frowns. He shouldn't be frowning when there's cats and flowers in the world. He shouldn't be frowning when there's lots of people who want to kiss him, Patrick included.

But there's this nagging feeling he has that maybe kissing isn't always nice. Maybe it's not always as good as Patrick's experienced. Sometimes people kiss without asking the other person and it's okay because the permission was in the body language, but perhaps sometimes the other person really fucking _doesn't_ want to be kissed, no matter how good it might feel. But Pete would tell the other guy if that was the case, wouldn't he?

Would the other guy listen, though? Or would he just carry on kissing? Is he that much of a fucking _asshole_? From what Patrick's seen of him, the answer is a resounding _yes._

So now Patrick's abandoned his pencil-chewing, and is once again thinking about Pete. This is getting fucking ridiculous.

He shouldn't care. But he is Pete's _friend,_ no matter how much they avoid each other. Sam brushes against his ankles, and Patrick wishes the cat would talk to him, tell him a bit more about how this world works, how Pete's world works. Then he'd know exactly what to do.

Hopping off the stool, he glances up at the ceiling, pulling his jumper over his hips and exhaling shortly. Surely just checking up on Pete wouldn't hurt. Just making certain that everything's okay.

He doesn't go upstairs very often. Pete gave him a quick tour once it was clear he'd be staying longer than a couple of nights, but seeing as his bedroom and the bathroom are on the ground floor, there's really no need. All that's up here is Pete's office (a small and dingy room that could do with a window and a few more colours), a sorry-looking potted plant, and Pete's bedroom and bathroom. So unless they've decided to do paperwork, they must be in the bedroom.

And Patrick knows something's wrong as soon as he steps onto the landing; he can hear groaning, like the noise someone makes when they lift something heavy, and underneath the groans is the creak of a mattress. Padding closer towards Pete's bedroom door, he hears talking, too, breathless in between the groans.

"So fucking...oh god...so fucking hot...fuck..." It's the same as on the sofa. Maybe they're just kissing on the bed. Patrick's quite proud of the fact that he knows the word _hot_ doesn't just denote temperature. He wonders if _hot_ and _pretty_ are the same thing. Pete's pretty.

He very nearly walks away. If Pete and his friend are kissing, he sure as fucking hell isn't going to listen. But just as he takes a step back, the voice changes its tone.

"Mine," it growls, "you're _mine._ You... _fuck_...you belong to me, you hear me? Say it."

The response is an incoherent mumble.

"Say it, slut!"

"I...uh, belong to you," another voice, _Pete's_ voice, replies weakly.

"Yeah, you're my fucking whore...my fucking...dirty little whore..." the other man breathes, and Patrick doesn't know what that word means, but it sure as hell doesn't sound like a nice thing. And even if it is, the guy doesn't say it like it's a nice thing. Patrick feels a little jab of offence; does this guy think he can insult Pete and get away with it? Because if he does, he's fucking deluded.

"Such a slut," the guy's low voice continues, "you're fucking _begging_ for it...I bet you'd let anyone fuck you...but you're _mine,_ you hear me...my own dirty fucking whore...you belong to me..."

What the fuck this guy's on about, Patrick has no damn idea. But he doesn't like the sound of it one fucking bit.

"Say it again, say you're my whore," the voice hisses, just quiet enough that Patrick has to lean towards the door to hear. "Say it now."

"I'm a whore," Pete replies obediently, and Patrick wonders why the hell Pete's going along with this. Can't he just tell the guy to fuck off?

"Louder," the guy snarls, his breaths getting heavier, until a sharp slap pierces the air.

 _Finally, he's got his own back,_ Patrick thinks, hoping Pete got him right in his stupid face. But there's no outraged cry. Just a slight moan, and a whimper of "I'm a whore."

That's when he realises. The guy just hit Pete. _The guy just hit Pete._ Holy fucking shit.

Without a moment's hesitation, Patrick decides he has to do something about this, and seizes the door handle, bursting into the bedroom with curled fists and a glare that could curdle milk.

"What the fuck!?" he spits, seeing the guy and Pete on the bed. They've obviously been fighting, and the guy's won, 'cause he's sitting over Pete's sprawled form, his hands pinning down Pete's arms. And they both don't have any clothes on. Interesting. It must have been a fucking weird fight.

The guy looks up, and on seeing Patrick, claws at the duvet, grabbing a pillow and attempting to cover himself before losing his balance and falling off the bed. It'd be fucking funny, too, if Patrick wasn't so damn angry.

"What the _fuck_ were you doing to him?!" he yells, gesturing to Pete, who's hastily pulling the duvet up and over himself, staring at Patrick with a look of horror. He seems to be alright, there's no blood or bruises on his face.

"What the..." the guy trails off, shoving jeans over his legs, "who the fuck are you?!"

"You just fucking hit him, didn't you!" he snarls, a growl rising in the back of his throat. He knows he's not supposed to do that, but sometimes he can't help it.

The guy stands up, and _oh fuck, he's another tall one._ His chest is one of those ones where the muscles show through, and he has those lines on his hips, and bulging biceps. Patrick could probably still take him, though. But Pete wouldn't like that.

"Were you _listening?!"_ the guy spits, pointing a finger at Patrick, jaw set.

"Yes," Patrick says defiantly, sticking his chin out, "and I don't like you. You're not nice to him."

The other man scoffs. "Like it's any of your business."

"Damn right it's my fucking business, I'm Pete's friend, and you're an asshole!"

"Listen, you little-"

"Shut up!" Patrick yells, stepping as close to the guy as he dares, "you shouldn't talk to him like that, he doesn't belong to you, people don't belong to other people!"

"For fuck's sake, I-"

"No! You kiss him without asking, you touch him when he doesn't want you to, you call him names and now you hit him!" he scathes, counting them off on his fingers.

"I-"

"Get the _fuck_ off his property!" he shouts, pointing towards the door.

The guy shoots an exasperated look towards Pete. "Aren't you going to do anything about this?!"

Pete simply shrugs.

With an angry sound, the guy sweeps a shirt up off the floor and makes for the door, shoving Patrick roughly in the process. _Dickhead,_ Patrick thinks, snapping his foot out behind him and catching the guy's leg, making him stumble out of the door.

Patrick follows him all the way downstairs, arms crossed and glare burning into the guy as he shoves his shoes on and scrabbles about for his phone. He makes sure the guy's completely disappeared down the end of the street before closing the front door.

 

By the time he's made it back upstairs, Pete's dressed and tidying up the bed sheets, sitting down on the bed when Patrick appears in the doorway.

"Are you hurt?" the boy asks softly, knitting his fingers together and hoping to _god_ he's done the right thing.

Pete doesn't look at him. He simply breathes a laugh, shifting his feet about and fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. "No."

"Oh," Patrick responds, frowning. _But I heard the slap?_ "Well, that's good."

Pete doesn't say anything. He looks at Patrick for a long few seconds, during which Patrick loses all confidence in his actions, and considers just running away.

Finally, Pete pats the duvet beside him, and for once, Patrick knows what that gesture means. It's time for a _little chat._ Shit.

If he had boots on, he'd be quaking in them as he shuffles towards Pete. Instead, he focuses on summoning all the swear words he knows, preparing himself for the fight. It's weird how much harder it is to shout at friends.

"Okay," Pete says with a sigh, turning to face Patrick, "I just – uh, look. Two things. First, please, never, ever, _ever_ burst in here when I'm with someone?" he pleads, clasping his hands in front of him.

"But...I was worried, you were fighting," Patrick replies, trying desperately to read Pete's expression, in case he's angry.

But Pete just stares at Patrick for a few moments, his mouth slightly open and his eyebrows drawn together. "Um...fighting?"

"Yeah," Patrick shrugs, "he was, like, calling you names, _and_ he hit you."

"Well, yes, but...we, um. We weren't fighting." Now he's looking at Patrick like there's a huge something he's missed.

"So...what _were_ you doing?"

Pete breathes a laugh, doing his _I-can't-believe-you-don't-know-about-this_ face. Patrick pushes back his desire to punch it.

"You – you don't know about sex, do you," Pete winces, shaking his head slightly.

 _Sex._ He's heard that word before. _Sexual intercourse._ It's how living things breed and make baby living things. It's something to do with the area between his legs, too. The TV mentions it a lot, jokes often revolve around it. But he'll never have it, that's been made pretty clear to him.

He must look rather lost, because Pete interrupts his brain-rifling with a small cough and a muttered "oh god."

"I know _some_ stuff!" Patrick protests, "It involves dicks!"

At that, Pete barks out a laugh, his eyes crinkling up and his cheeks going all round. "Yes," he finally manages to say, "yes it does. Well, unless it's two women. But...yeah."

"Is that what you were doing?" Patrick asks, confused. "Are you going to have a baby?"

The other man shakes his head with a smile, "no. I'm a guy, so, no."

Patrick doesn't completely grasp Pete's meaning, but he has more important questions for now. "Then why were you doing it?"

"Uh," Pete fumbles, looking away, "well, it, uh, feels good, I guess."

That's pretty hard to believe. "Really? But he was saying nasty things, and he slapped you?"

"Yeah. Some people like that. I don't know, it makes them enjoy it more," Pete shrugs.

"Do _you_ like it?" the boy asks softly.

With an undecided noise, Pete shrugs again. "I don't know. Sometimes. It makes them happy, so..." he tails off. "But _don't_ walk in again, okay? It's quite a private thing, you know? People usually like to be alone, and not be interrupted, yeah?"

"Yeah. I just...thought you were fighting. And that guy was a fucking asshole," Patrick spits, his hands instinctively curling into fists.

"Ah, now that's the second thing," Pete says, clicking his fingers.

 _Shit._ Panic rises in Patrick's chest. "I didn't hit him! You can't fucking shout at me for that, I didn't touch him, you were there, you saw I didn't hit him, I fucking wanted to but I didn't, I did what you said, don't fucking kick me out for this!" he shrieks, loud enough to make Pete wince and touch a finger to his ear.

"Okay, okay, whoa," he soothes, extending a hand towards Patrick's knee and almost touching it, then changing his mind and taking it back. "I'm not angry, and I know you didn't hit him. I just wanted to say, well. Thanks," he finishes with a shrug.

With a frown, Patrick recoils from Pete, trying to work out what he means. Is he being sarcastic? Is he testing Patrick's response? "What do you mean?" he warns, beginning to rebuild his defences.

Pete laughs a bit. "I mean, thank you. You're right, he was an asshole, and, like – I'm not saying you were right to barge in – but I'm glad you did," he says sheepishly, running his hands over his knees.

Happiness peeks over the wall Patrick's built, seeping out through his eyes and over his lips in the form of a shrill "Really?"

The nod of Pete's head makes Patrick want to hug him. "Yeah," the older man says, "thanks for, like, looking out for me, I guess. And for kicking him out, whoa, you really _told_ him," he grins, extending a fist and nudging Patrick in the shoulder with it.

"Told him what?"

"Turn of phrase," Pete says kindly, "means you kicked his ass." That makes Patrick smile. Pete's getting better at explaining things to him, and he hardly ever gets annoyed anymore, apart from the time he had to explain to Patrick why eggs shouldn't go in the toaster. Most of the time, he's just got this bemused smile on his face, and now that Patrick's realised it doesn't mean that Pete's laughing at him, it's quite a funny expression. As if Pete can't quite believe what he's hearing, as if Patrick's something special.

"Pete," Patrick asks suddenly, as it's been bothering him ever since he saw the other man with no clothes on, "what are those marks on your skin?"

Looking down at his arms as if he's only just noticed them, Pete chuckles to himself. "They're called tattoos." His hands extend towards Patrick, his wrists twisting over to show the boy all of the intricate designs. There's lots of patterns, things he can't make out, but he sees pictures in them, a red face, some waves, a keyhole, a spiky skeleton man. A winged padlock with the word _unlovable_ spiralling around it.

"Did you draw these?" Patrick asks, nearly reaching out a hand to touch, but thinking better of it, in case he smudges the ink.

"No," Pete smiles, "other people did them. Tattoo artists. But I designed some of them, I guess," he shrugs, "they all meant something, at some point."

"How long have you had them?"

"Uh, this one's one of my oldest," he points to the padlock, "and the coloured ones are newer."

"But what happens when you have a bath?" Patrick questions, wondering how Pete can smell so nice if he never washes.

The other man laughs again, grinning at Patrick with confused amusement. "No, no, they don't wash off. They stay there forever."

"Oh. How?"

Pete traces a finger over the skeleton man. "It's special ink. They put it, sort of, in your skin. You can touch it, if you want."

Extending a hand, Patrick touches the colours, immediately looking at the tip of his finger. There's no ink on it, just a pale patch on Pete's skin, which quickly dissolves into its usual light brown colour.

When the other man doesn't retract his arms, Patrick takes Pete's wrist lightly in his hands, skimming his palms over the tattoos, feeling the fine hairs on Pete's skin, putting his thumbs over the eyes of the skeleton man, watching him dance as Pete's muscles flex.

 _They're beautiful,_ Patrick decides. Pete's a walking piece of art. He's illustrated himself with his own thoughts, turned them into colours and pictures. Pete's _beautiful_.

It's silent for a while as Patrick examines every tattoo, the ones he can see, at least, trying to work out what they are, what they mean. He doesn't get very far. One day, perhaps, he'll know the meaning behind every single one of them.

But Pete eventually takes back his hands and slides them under his knees, hunching his shoulders up and scuffing his feet against the carpet. It's at this moment that Patrick's desire to kiss Pete rises through the roof; he _misses_ him, somehow, misses the warmth of his hands and the feel of his mouth. Patrick wonders how he can miss something he's never really had.

"Okay, uh..." Pete starts, making Patrick snap his gaze away from the other man and glue it to his knees. Whatever Pete was going to say, though, obviously fizzles away from him, giving way to a rush of air. He starts to get up, and Patrick's heart sinks a little, like some important moment has passed him by. Maybe he should have said something. Maybe he should have told Pete he's beautiful; he must know it, but it couldn't hurt. Or maybe shutting the fuck up is something Patrick should try more often. Enough people have told him so.

"Pete?" he says quickly, jolting up from the bed and making Pete turn around mid t-shirt fold.

It should be easy to say. Fuck, it should fall out his mouth like cardboard from a wheelie bin, he should be tripping over the words in his haste to express them. But he's not. There's a lump in his throat, a fist squeezed around his neck, and the words get washed away, leaving him standing in front of Pete with his mouth flapping and his brain searching for some kind of excuse.

After a few dreadful seconds of expectant silence from Pete, he looks away. If he thought he'd missed the moment before, he sure as fuck has now; he can see it, waving its middle finger at him in the distance. _Shit. Say something. Anything._

So he resorts to asking questions. "Pete?"

"Yeah?" the man laughs.

"What's a whore?"

And Pete does his normal awkward laugh and his normal awkward smile and leaves Patrick feeling completely abnormal, as per fucking usual.

Next time. Next time he'll tell him. 


	9. Kiss Me, I'm Dying

 

Pete's got a weird feeling about this kid.

Not that he didn't _always_ have a weird feeling about him, but recently, he's been maxing out the weird-scale quite frequently. And there's also the fact that Pete's mildly terrified of him.

Okay, perhaps _terrified_ isn't the right word; Pete's _wary_ of the boy, keeps checking if his car's still in the drive the moment he wakes up, keeps his phone on him at all times, checks Patrick's room for drugs from time to time. At work, he read up on the laws of residency and was relieved to find that as Patrick is a _gratuitous guest_ who isn't paying any rent, Pete is at perfect liberty to kick him out at any time, and call the police if he refuses to go. He's just hoping to _god_ that Patrick has UK citizenship because if he's an illegal immigrant, they're both up to their ears in shit.

But, as expected, the boy has no documents, no identity, nothing to prove that he is who he says he is. Pete's starting to regret the _no questions asked_ agreement. He's a lawyer, he has to ask questions, but Patrick shuts him off as soon as any aspect of his past is likely to be mentioned.

Pete's best guess, at the moment, is that this is all an act. The kid _does_ know what cats are and what the oven does and why water falls from the sky all the time, he just _acts_ like he doesn't. It's all gotta be some ruse, maybe to get Pete to trust him, in which case he's failed miserably, or just to get free bed and board, in which case he's succeeded spectacularly. It's not a perfect theory, but it's the most plausible, as all his others involve Patrick having lived in the woods all his life (he'd never seen a squirrel before, so unlikely) or some shady government activity and having his memory wiped (in which case, he wouldn't even be able to _remember_ his past, and wouldn't have to hide it). But Pete swears to god he heard Patrick speaking Russian one time.

Despite all this, Pete's beginning to actually _like_ him. And Pete doesn't usually appreciate company for long periods of time, even Joe gets on his nerves sometimes.

But their agreement works both ways; Patrick, for all his questions about the world in general, hardly ever asks personal things about Pete, apart from that one conversation about sex. Pete's more or less satiated the boy's curiosity by teaching him how to use the laptop, which Patrick picked up surprisingly quickly.

"So, it's like a calculator, but with words?" he'd said, staring at the blinking cursor in the Google search bar.

"Yeah," Pete had replied, laughing at the boy, then realising that that was actually quite an accurate description.

He deliberately _didn't_ tell Patrick how to delete his search history.

First of all, the boy searched _cats, what language do cats speak, how to talk to cats, how to get cats to like you,_ which Pete thought was pretty damn adorable, then _what are cars, how do cars work,_ then _why do lights light up, what is christmas for,_ then it gets _real_ deep, _who is god, is god real, what happens when people die, what is religion, what is faith, what do different religions believe in._ Then, just recently, there's the stuff about sex. _How does sex work, why is sex good, how do people make other people._ Pete should've expected it, really, should've warned him what he might find, and doesn't quite know whether to bring it up again. He's also slightly worried that Patrick's crush might have turned into something slightly more; he _really_ doesn't like the look of _how do men have sex,_ and the real clincher, _am I gay._

Now, Pete likes to think he's pretty well practised in discerning people's sexual preferences - years of getting it wrong, being thrown disgusted looks and words has chiselled him into rather an expert – but when it comes to Patrick, he really doesn't know if anything he's learnt applies. _Yes,_ he kissed Pete several times without protest, but before Pete, the kid didn't even know what kissing was, how could he know that kissing a guy was in any way different to kissing a girl? How does he know he wouldn't like kissing girls better? In fact, the concept of gender seems to have pretty much bypassed Patrick; he only seems to register that some people have boobs and some people don't. It's quite refreshing, in a weird way.

But Pete's worried. Pete's always worried, but this particular worry happens to be living in his house and following him around as he makes toast. He _knows_ the kid likes him, even if the kid himself doesn't know it.

It's a little strange, because Pete's not used to being _liked,_ really, only being _checked out._ The guys he fucks don't blush when he approaches them, or stumble over their words when they talk to him. He's used to lusty lip-bites and husky voices, and the occasional slap on the ass. But Patrick's all wide eyes and pink cheeks, it's a bit disconcerting, having that effect on someone. And Pete doesn't quite know how to convey that he will never _ever_ be Patrick's damn _special person._

 _It's only natural,_ Pete tells himself, _he only likes me 'cause I'm the first person who kissed him._ Patrick'll soon see that he's got a lot more choice aside from Pete. Not that this bothers him, of course. He just hopes the boy doesn't try to _make a move,_ or anything like that, because Pete swears he's still got bruised lips from the first time Patrick tried to display his affections.

Couple this with the fact that the kid's been blessed with a ticking time-bomb of a temper, and Pete's got himself a situation that he has no idea how to deal with. He met a lot of different people in his time as a practising lawyer, but none to whom he had to explain the concept of time itself.

Every day, Patrick writes the date very carefully on the whiteboard on Pete's fridge (in absolutely _immaculate_ handwriting, Pete might add). Patrick knew roughly what years represented, but ever since Pete explained how the days all have different numbers, and are sorted into different months, the kid's been hooked. _Time-maths,_ he called it. He got extremely excited a few days ago when September suddenly became October. Pete hardly ever gets excited about anything, and there Patrick is, nearly whooping with joy over a new Monday.

"He's just _weird,"_ Pete whines, slumped at the kitchen table, picking at an orange as he listens to his mum laugh down the phone at him.

"If you hate him so much, why on earth did you invite him in?" she buzzes at him, but he can hear her amused smile.

"I didn't _know_ he was weird when I first met him," he protests, ignoring the fact that he _did_ know Patrick was a criminal. "And I don't _hate_ him, per se."

"What's the problem, then? That he's just different to you?" his mother scolds, code for _don't-be-such-a-judgemental-arse._ "Poor thing, he must've had a difficult life."

"Mum, he didn't know what _cats_ were. Or planes. Or _plants,_ for crying out loud!"

There's a pause at the other end of the phone. "Hmm," she hums, "he's a strange one, I'll give you that. But it doesn't mean you can bully him, okay?"

Pete scoffs. "Mum, when have I ever bullied anyone? _He's_ the one doing the bullying round here, he's a nightmare, seriously, you should have seen him the other day, he shouted the house down at this guy I was seeing, he literally threw him out on the street, I swear-"

"One of your one-nighters?" his mum asks in her stern way, and Pete feels heat in his cheeks.

"Well, uh, yeah, I guess, I mean, I-"

"I like him already," she says flatly, and Pete winces. His mother's always hated his promiscuous habits; mostly because she thinks he needs to _settle down,_ or whatever. But that's one luxury he can't afford, and she knows it. He doesn't say that, though. It'll only make her cry again.

"Sorry," he sighs, running his hand through his hair. "It's just...he's sort of scary. He _broke Gabe's nose,"_ he says for the thousandth time. He still hasn't quite got the _crunch_ out of his head.

"I know, darling, but everyone makes mistakes."

" _Everyone makes mistakes?_ There's a potential murderer living in my house, and all you can say is _everyone makes mistakes?_ What if his next mistake is stabbing me in the head?!"

She laughs, at that, _laughs. "_ Oh, sweetie, I'm sure he's lovely, once you get to know him."

Pete clicks his tongue. "Yeah, okay. He's not paying rent, either," he spits, chewing on several segments of orange at once.

"Oh," his mother snaps icily, and Pete flinches, "so you, a wealthy, middle-class, privileged young man feel the need to squeeze even more money out of the poor little orphan child you've-"

"Okay, okay," he sighs, backing down. "I'm not gonna make him pay." Pete's no Dickens villain, after all. "But I am just... _worried,_ you know? Like, I know nothing about him, or, like, what I've got myself into. He's just... _weird,"_ Pete says again, breaking the leftover orange peel into little pieces.

"Listen, sweetie," she says, gentler this time, "if you're really unsettled by him, ask him to leave. Politely, of course. But I think it'd be nice for you to get to know him. You've never had a room-mate before, it might be good for you. How long has it been since you really connected with someone?"

Pete rolls his eyes. She's always on about _connections,_ always wants him to make more friends. She thinks he's lonely, which he _is,_ but he'd never admit it. "Joe's cool. We've been talking more. And I've been thinking about getting in touch with Ashley again, it's been a while since I saw her," he muses. It's a complete lie, but again, he'd never tell her that, she'd only worry.

"Well, good. Just so long as you're doing okay," she says quietly, and they both know the meaning of that question, but neither wants to voice it.

"I'm good, mum," Pete replies, nodding and smiling like he would if anyone was watching.

"Okay. Alright. Don't forget to take your pills, and don't worry about things, either, October's looking like a fantastic month for Gemini, it says you've got _an extraordinary surprise which will change the course of your life for the better._ Fingers crossed, Pete!" she trills, and Pete grimaces. She hopes it'll be about the cancer; she always does.

"Thanks, mum. See you soon. Bye."

He receives a bright "Goodbye!" in return, and hangs up.

The phone beeps at him, and he sighs at it, placing it down on the table beside him. He hopes she's not too worried. She's probably alright; she'd have come over if she thought he was anywhere close to jumping in front of a bus. It's at times like this he wishes he had a brother or sister, someone to look out for her, especially when he's gone. He's got to the point of acceptance with it all now, but leaving her alone is something he wishes he could change.

Another breath rushes out of him. He just wants _someone._

"I swear to fucking _god,_ if one more fucking person calls me a fucking _kid,_ I'm gonna _fucking_ break another _fucking_ nose," Patrick's familiar tone scathes as Pete looks up to see him bustling through the front door, arms full of shopping bags.

The grey haze seems to lift from Pete's vision, and he snorts a laugh, watching the boy mutter to himself as he yanks the door shut and dumps the bags on the floor with a _flumph_ and a rather worrying _crack_ of glass.

"To be fair, you do look sort of like a twelve-year-old," Pete grins, getting to his feet and leaning on the kitchen counter, where he's well out of Patrick's reach.

"Hey, fuck you, shit-face," the boy snarls, throwing Pete a glare, but he can't hold it for long, and it splits into a smile as he looks down in front of him. Pausing for a second to shove some of the escaping bananas back into their bags, he starts to gather up the handles again, and Pete hops over to help him.

"So, how'd it go this time?" It's the second time Pete's sent Patrick out to get groceries – he figures if he's not paying rent, the kid's got to at least pull his weight – and the fact that he's actually here with food in the bags is a vast improvement, even if it did take four hours. It was partially Pete's fault; he should have warned the boy about the self-service checkouts.

"Okay," Patrick hums, straightening up and marching over to the counter, where he and Pete place the bags. "Although what the _fuck_ are pineapples. They look like fucking _grenades_."

Pete smiles, searching through the bags until he sees the spiky leaves of the pineapple, and pulls the fruit out, inspecting it for any signs of damage. With Patrick handling it, god knows where it's been. 

"Which bit do you eat?" the boy asks curiously, peering at it.

"Not the leaves. This bit, the round bit," Pete explains, pointing.

"But it's all..." Patrick makes a face, wriggling his fingers at it. Pete thinks he understands.

"You don't eat the skin. Here, look," he says brightly, beckoning the kid to follow him round the counter, and heading to the wooden chopping board. He'd never normally buy a pineapple, he'd end up wasting most of it, but he put one on the list specifically for Patrick's benefit.

He takes a knife from the drawer, lays the pineapple on the surface in front of him, and slices the top off, revealing the bright yellow fruit inside. The kid watches, entranced, and Pete hands it to him, seeing his face light up and his mouth drop open. It occurs to Pete that witnessing Patrick's reactions to ordinary things has become one of his favourite things to do.

"It's beautiful," he says softly, and Pete's grin widens. "Where does it come from?"

The other man scoffs, shrugging. "I have no idea. Not England, that's for sure. Somewhere hot. Probably South America."

"Where's that?" Patrick asks, his eyebrows knitting together. "Isn't it where the people on the television come from, sometimes?"

Making a mental note to try to stop Patrick watching quite so much _Friends,_ he shakes his head. "No, no, South America is different to North America. North America is the States, y'know? They speak English, mostly. South Americans speak Spanish, and Portuguese and stuff." _God,_ he's bad at explanations.

"¿La gente en Inglaterra también habla español?" Patrick says suddenly, gaze trained on Pete, clutching the pineapple earnestly.

"Um...what?" Pete questions, trying to get his head round the strange words that just spouted from the kid's mouth.

"¿Hablas español? ¿Qué es español para _pineapple?_ Me pregunto si-"

"Whoa, whoa," Pete interrupts, eyes bulging. "Is that Spanish?"

"Si – uh, yeah," Patrick frowns, like it's obvious.

Pete's mouth flaps for a few seconds as his mind finds its way out of the pool of perplexity it's just been pushed into, and he blinks rapidly. "You – you speak Spanish? Like, fluently?"

The kid's eyes dart, and he hugs the pineapple closer. "Is that not normal?"

"Well, I-"

"Because I'm fucking normal! I swear! Don't you dare fucking think I'm not!" Patrick's voice rises, and he backs away.

"Hey, no, that's not what I meant," Pete backtracks. "I know you're normal," he says, and although it's a complete lie, the boy seems to relax a little. How he can think Pete sees him as anywhere near _normal_ at this stage in the game, Pete has no idea.

Patrick narrows his eyes, cheeks reddening and hands tight around the pineapple. But by now, Pete knows mostly how to deal with this side of Patrick: gently.

"I only meant that that's really cool. I don't know any other languages, I mean, I took French GCSE, but that's about it," Pete shrugs. "Where'd you learn it? Did you grow up in Spain?"

It's Patrick's turn to shrug, and now he looks uncomfortable, like he's done something wrong. "Uh, books."

Pete senses that they're easing into awkward territory, the unspoken mystery of Patrick's past. He could press on, maybe get the kid to spill more secrets, but as much as he'd like to, he can't help but see the downright _fear_ on the boy's face, can't bring himself to be that cruel.

"Okay, well, that's awesome," Pete says, as encouragingly as he can. When Patrick doesn't respond, he decides to change the subject. "So, you wanna try some?" he gestures to the pineapple in the kid's hands.

Patrick stares at Pete for a few seconds, then his shoulders un-knot, and he nods quickly.

Feeling extremely daring simply for eating the food before they've unpacked the shopping bags, Pete cuts up half the pineapple into little cubes, and hands one to Patrick, who peers at it in wonder, sniffs it, then puts it in his mouth, chewing slowly.

Pete watches as the boy's eyes fall shut, and he hums at the taste, licking the juice from his fingers absently before he swallows and his lips curve into a smile. "Fuck," he grins. "That's fucking amazing."

The older man smiles, and before he knows it, Patrick's eaten half the pineapple, and they're both sampling most of the food as they transfer it to the cupboards. Patrick loves all of the fruit, the yoghurt, the cheeses, but spits the ice cream everywhere, saying that it hurts his mouth, and only eats it once Pete's melted it in the microwave. _The nicest soup I've ever had,_ he'd said, and they ended up melting the whole tub and taking turns slurping sloppy spoonfuls. It's the most fun Pete's had in ages.

-

When Pete wakes up the next morning, he doesn't know where he is.

Okay, so, he knows _where_ he is; he's in a bedroom. Not his bedroom, somebody else's. This isn't his house, either, he's got far better taste in curtains.

He shifts a little, and the mattress creaks. It's dark, mostly, the edges of objects highlighted by the faint glow seeping through those god-awful curtains. He can't see what colour they are, but the patterns alone are enough to make him wince.

There's a man sleeping beside him. It's warm, in the bed, the type of warmth that only two bodies can create, and the night before slowly begins to come back to him. He's done it a hundred times before; woken up in a stranger's bed.

The man's curled away from him, his ruffled brown hair circling his head on the pillow. He's naked, too, Pete can see the curve of his spine even in the shadows under the covers, the shadows of his ribs. He's skinny, this one, skinny and toned and lovely, just how Pete likes. Tall, too, extra bonus points. _William,_ that's his name. Pete's glad he remembered.

He can see the outline of his jeans on the floor. The clock on the bedside table says it's only just gone seven o'clock, perfect timing for Pete to slip away, unnoticed. But he _hates_ that. Every time he does it, he feels guilty, for having someone like that, and then throwing them away. That's why he prefers to bring them back to his place; that way, they can throw _Pete_ away, instead. It's easier that way.

But this one's special. He was kind, Pete remembers that much. He bought Pete a drink, listened to his tipsy rambles about his crazy room-mate, laughed and groaned and sighed in all the right places. Moaned in all the right places, too.

He shifts a little closer to William, breathing in his warm scent, touching his feet to the man's calves, craning his neck to graze his nose against the man's hair. It's nice, nice to stay, nice to think _hey, maybe this is something more._ Maybe when they wake up, he'll ask William on a date, and they'll exchange phone numbers and send heart emojis to one another. He can't have anything long-term, but maybe, he could just have a little taste of love before he goes. Maybe one day, he'll wake up to someone who isn't a stranger.

His eyes fall shut once again, his knuckles brushing against William's back, until he plucks up the courage to curl his fingers over the man's hip. He falls asleep to the rush of William's breathing.

-

"Dude."

Pete's eyes flutter open, then fall closed again.

"Dude, wake up."

The voice isn't meant for him, he decides, cuddling the duvet tighter.

" _Dude,"_ the voice says, louder, poking him in the shoulder. "Dude, get up."

Pete's eyes finally commit themselves to opening and he grunts, shifting onto his back and blinking at the voice, which in fact belongs to a person.

"William?" he slurs, propping himself up on his elbows. William's standing at the side of the bed, half-dressed and staring at him. The curtains are open now, too-bright light jabbing at Pete's eyes.

"Yeah, dude, you gotta get up, my boyfriend's gonna be here soon, come on," he urges, tugging the covers off Pete and making frantic hand gestures.

The air's cold against Pete's chest, and despite what they did last night, his skin prickles under William's stare. Scrambling off the bed, he reaches for his jeans, feeling his cheeks burn.

"Here's your t-shirt," William says, and Pete feels fabric hit the back of his head, and peels it off gingerly. "Sorry for the rush. I just didn't really, like, expect you to still be here. What's your name again?"

Pete's just about awake enough for that to hurt. "Pete," he sighs, yanking the t-shirt over his head.

"Do you want some aspirin or something? 'Cause I got fucking _hammered_ last night. Sorry if I, like, drooled on you or something. Oh, and your jacket's probably somewhere around here..." William trails off, pushing his hair out of his face to scan his scruffy carpet.

 _He's pretty,_ Pete thinks wistfully as he shoves socks he's not even sure belong to him onto his feet. _He's nice, too, nice enough._ But those words keep bouncing around his head, _my boyfriend, my boyfriend._ Of course he's taken. Pete assumes London's run out of single guys for him to sleep with, so now he's onto the ones in relationships.

"Found it!" There's now a much heavier item of clothing flying at his head, but Pete manages to catch it before it does any damage.

"Thanks. And I'll pass on the aspirin." His head isn't too sore; in fact, it barely aches at all. He didn't actually drink very much last night, but he doesn't tell William this. He just fishes around for his shoes and tries not to look too sad.

"Sorry about last night," William sighs, breathing a laugh through his nose. Pete's mouth forms a hard line. So he's an apology. Or at least, he will be once William's boyfriend gets here. "I'll show you out."

The walk through the small flat is spent avoiding the other man's gaze and preventing the pain shooting across his hips from crossing his face. There's a pain in his head, too, but it wasn't caused by the alcohol.

He checks instinctively for his phone and his keys, his momentary panic withdrawing when he feels the weight in his jacket pocket. There are no thieving tramp boys around here. Although, perhaps the morning would have played out very differently if there was.

Pete almost smiles at the memory of Patrick screaming his head off at James, the asshole he shouldn't have gone anywhere near at the bar a few nights previously. That one had been the opposite of William; pushy, aggressive, and clinging to Pete like some sort of skin condition. Pete was only sex to him. Perhaps he _wasn't_ so different from William, then.

His smile fades into falseness as he finally looks up at the other man, and his thoughts stray beyond anger and into guilt. How could he be angry at a face like that? Surely he should only be grateful, grateful that a man as perfect as William ever wanted him at all. Grateful that at one moment, a moment fuelled by luminous drinks and sloppy kisses, William chose Pete to decorate his arm.

The man smiles crookedly, fumbling with the door and sweeping to the side like a true gentleman to let Pete through. Only he won't be following.

"Uh...bye, then." Pete fights the sigh with all his remaining energy, but it leaks into his words all the same, and William's face falls.

"Listen, dude. Pete," he corrects with a nod, "I'm really sorry about last night. I didn't mean to lead you on, it's just I don't usually do that sort of thing." The kindness in his words makes Pete yearn for things he can't have, and the pity woven with it makes Pete want to scream. Why does it always end with pity?

"That's okay," Pete tries, his social standards like hooks tugging the corners of his mouth upwards. "Good luck with your boyfriend." The remark could have been malicious if he'd had more energy, but it's flat and defeated instead.

"Thanks," William laughs, the panic only just touching his eyes. "He should be okay. It's nothing _he_ hasn't done before."

It's a wonder how easily people betray each other. It's one of the things that keeps Pete glad he has no-one to betray. Seeing relationships die is like watching people help each other swim to the surface, only to hold each other under once they reach it. Pete's used to the sinking sensation by now.

He steps over the threshold and into the grey hallway filled with other flats filled with other Williams, and receives a heavy slap on the shoulder and another of those crooked smiles. _That'll bruise,_ Pete thinks absently, _but at least it wasn't on the ass._

"You were a great fuck, mate. See you around!" William chimes as Pete waves half-heartedly and sets off down the stairs.

He doesn't care that he doesn't know where he's going as he trails past row upon row of doors, each the same fading beige. He doesn't care that he's not wearing enough layers for this weather and that the wind bites at his neck. He doesn't care that he barely remembers how to get home.

He _does_ care that there's no-one there waiting for him.

He's never going to come home to a warm hug and a loving kiss, he's never going to have the chance to memorise every detail of a person, their smile, their faults, the way their hand feels when it squeezes his own. Despite the queue of handsome strangers he's slowly eroding his way through, despite his own resolute decision to be fine, he's never quite got over the fact that he will never fall in love.

He's ready for it, he's sure he is. He's not a teenager any more, he's not supposed to fool around with people only for it not to mean a damn thing. He can be thoughtful, he likes to think; he'd sure as hell value the person a hundred times more than William had valued his boyfriend. Everywhere, he sees others discarding what Pete wishes he could keep for himself.

 _A great fuck._ A half-compliment. A rock thrown instead of an arrow fired. Pete sometimes wonders if he's addicted to sex; then realises he's only addicted to being wanted. At least they look at him like he's something to be looked at. That's better than nothing, right?

 _But is it really something?_ Pete thinks, _is it something to be an object of lust?_ Lust is fickle, fleeting and shallow. That's Pete, inside and out. It's all he'll ever be, a drunken mistake, a pair of lips, a nice ass. A great fuck. A stranger. That's lust, all over.

Love, on the other hand, well. That's not for Pete to have.

He spots the shitty bar he knows so well across the street, and with all the bad memories comes relief that he's actually somewhere near home. His feet find their way from here; the passing traffic dulls and the pavement blurs as the tears in his eyes fill his whole head.

He wonders how many times he's traced this journey, the bar to his house, sometimes with someone, sometimes without. He wonders how many times he'll have to do it before he stops being lonely.

-

There's a squeaking coming from the kitchen when Pete finally stumbles through the door. It'd be strange if Pete cared enough, but right at this second, he wants to forget about whatever the hell Patrick's broken now and go back to sleep.

Maybe he can sneak upstairs without the boy noticing; then he wouldn't have to deal with the questions and the spontaneous verbal explosions. He places his keys gently on the dresser, and shrugs his coat off, wincing at every small sound. _Don't hear me. Please don't hear me._

"Pete?"

The breath he'd been holding rushes out of him as Patrick appears at the end of the hallway with a marker pen and a smile.

"Hey," Pete sighs, praying for the boy to _go away,_ to not ask him any questions, for the tears in his eyes to stay the hell in his eyes.

"Are you alright?" Patrick asks, looking remarkably like a dog with his eyebrows bunched together and his head tilted to one side in confusion. Pete tries not to catch his eyes as he strides past him and into the lounge.

"Yes," he says through gritted teeth. He can see the stairs. He just needs to pick the right time to run for them.

"Why didn't you come home last night?" Patrick asks, tailing Pete and waving the marker pen. The whiteboard stuck to the fridge reads _12_ _th_ _of Octob_ and Patrick's hands are smudged with ink. Pete just wants him to go back and write the last two letters and forget Pete ever came in the door.

His mouth flaps, tongue trying to form the least tear-inducing response. "Uh...I stayed at a friend's house." It's mostly true, except the _friend_ part.

"A special friend?" For every step Pete takes, Patrick takes two, padding after him at an alarming rate. He's got loose-fitting jeans on, and his hair's a puff of ginger-brown on his head. He's wearing Pete's hoodie, too, Pete told him to keep it. It's got tramp-germs on now, after all.

"No," Pete spits, as forcefully as he dares. The boy blinks at him, and for a moment, Pete thinks he talked himself into a black eye, but Patrick simply frowns, and when Pete shuffles away, doesn't follow.

Maybe Patrick says something, maybe he doesn't, Pete neither knows nor cares as he makes a dash for the stairs and finally, _finally_ flops down on top of his bed. He didn't intend for this to lead to a full breakdown, but he can't blink back the tears any longer, and all the clouded thoughts that have been waiting patiently in the wings crowd his mind.

Since there's no shoulder to cry on, the pillows will have to do.

-

Pete only opens his eyes when he hears footsteps.

He doesn't know how long exactly he's been buried in the bedsheets, but the fabric under his head is soaked with tears and he can barely breathe around the tightness in his throat, so it must have been a while.

He doesn't often cry like this, he doesn't let himself. If he gave in to every bout of sobs, he'd be losing tears faster than he could replenish them. It's a system that works, mostly, until he inevitably crumbles, and days like this happen, when everything gets too much and he can't quite build the floodgates high enough. On days like this, he likes to be left alone.

The footsteps creep nearer.

Pete heaves himself up off the pillows, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and vowing to kill that stupid kid if he gets anywhere near Pete's room. _No-one_ sees him like this, not even his mum, and he's not about to let Patrick see him either.

The footsteps are on the landing now, and Pete huffs out a breath, wiping the tears from his cheeks and turning over the wet pillow. He can't take the puffiness from his eyes, though, he can't bleach the redness from around them. _Don't come in,_ he thinks desperately as he listens to the boy walk across the landing, _please don't come in._

There's a quiet knock at the door.

 _Shit._ Pete makes a last-ditch attempt at clawing the moisture from his face, and smooths out the bed-covers as best he can. "Don't come in," he tries to say, but his traitor voice cracks horrifically and fresh tears spring to his eyes before the last word leaves his lips.

The door swings open slowly, and Pete looks away, hand playing with his hair solely to hide his face. He shifts, putting his back to the door.

"Please leave me alone," he croaks in his best _I'm fine_ voice.

He sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and feels Patrick watching him, the bed covers dipping where tentative fingers brush them, the floorboards creaking under uncertain feet.

Pete doesn't look up. If he waits long enough, perhaps Patrick will leave, and the boy won't see Pete's puffy eyes and blotchy face and shattered heart. The silence swells, and Pete becomes suddenly conscious of his breathing, how fast and stunted it is compared to the slow rushes of air moving through Patrick.

The boy coughs slightly, a verbal poke in the shoulder, a nudge to get Pete to say something, but if Pete speaks, he'll sound like a strangled shrew, and he definitely looks like he's been crying, so any form of eye contact is well out of the equation. On the other hand, sitting in complete silence isn't exactly screaming _emotional health_.

When he finally chances a look up at Patrick, he almost forgets why he spent the last half-hour sobbing into his pillow. The kid's standing by the side of his bed with two cats balanced on his shoulders and a plate of fruit in his hands.

"Pineapple," Patrick states, offering Pete the plate.

"Um," Pete fumbles, eyeing the large ginger cat currently nuzzling into Patrick's face, "I told you not to let that one in the house."

The boy's face falls a little. "She'll leave soon. I promise."

Pete makes an uncertain noise, and turns his attention to the fruit, slipping to the side of the plate where it's tilted towards Pete's face. He finally takes it from the boy when he can stand the thought of pineapple on his floor no longer. "Thanks," he says uncertainly, frowning at the fruit. He decides to ignore the fact that the cubes it's cut into are identical and flawless.

There's an expectant look on the kid's face when Pete flicks his gaze up at him again, and Pete realises that just holding the pineapple isn't enough for Patrick. He sighs a little, and eats a cube, seeing the boy's shoulder's relax and his mouth curve into something nearly resembling a smile. Perhaps he's satisfied now. Perhaps he'll leave Pete to cry in peace. Or perhaps, he'll stick his nose in where it's not wanted.

"Talk," the boy says suddenly, looking rather alarmed, as if the word simply fell out of his mouth without warning. His hands are clawing the life out of each other, and his eyes dart around the room as he fumbles over whatever's going on in his brain.

"Listen, Patrick, I-"

"Talk," the kid repeats, seeming more self-assured, and he steps closer to the bed, a hand hovering over the bedpost. "Andy always tells me to talk about the things that upset me."

Pete has barely opened his mouth to question before Patrick's done his usual magic-trick of going from perfectly at ease to completely terrified, his eyes wide and his mouth flapping like he's made a massive error with far-reaching consequences.

Again, Pete could pounce. He could dig his fingers into the chink in Patrick's armour and pull and pull until the façade falls away and the boy has no choice but to spill everything. But that wasn't the deal. And as much as Pete wants to figure the kid out, right now, he's more concerned with confronting the fact that Patrick knows he's been crying like a little kid and is most likely amending his definition of Pete to include the words _weak_ and _pathetic._

"I'm not upset," Pete says despite himself, and it's worth it just for the look of sheer relief on the boy's face when he avoids the obvious _who-the-hell-is-Andy_ conversation. "I'm just... a bit low at the moment."

"Why?" Patrick asks, wavering near the edge of the bed before finally perching on the end of it. He looks genuinely concerned, stroking the ginger cat where it's now fussing over his lap.

"Urgh, I don't know," Pete sighs with a sad smile. "I guess I just...well. You know I said I stayed at a friend's? Well, I sorta. I thoughtitmightbesomethingmorebutheaskedmetoleave," he gushes, flinching as soon as he's done.

Patrick doesn't look like he really understands what Pete means, but he nods all the same, chewing on his lips like he's trying to think of a solution to all of Pete's problems.

When Patrick stays silent, Pete decides he might take this opportunity to vent a little bit. Patrick's a blank canvas, he doesn't know any of the other people involved, hell, he probably doesn't know what most of the words Pete's using mean, and if any of this comes back to bite him, Pete can just throw the boy out on the street and forget about him. Perfect to vent to.

He stutters through the events of the night before, carefully missing out any details that might spawn awkward questions, and talks at Patrick like he's hardly there, like he's a priest behind a screen. It's surprisingly easy, but then, Pete's never really had a problem with talking, so long as the person wants to listen. Patrick hardly even breaks eye-contact.

The only time he interrupts is when Pete's nearing the end of his little rant, and says something along the lines of "and it's just horrible because it's not like I'm going to even fall in love with anyone, like, ever."

"Why?" Patrick asks suddenly, indignantly, his cat-stroking hands stilling and his head cocked to one side. "Everyone has a special person. You said so yourself."

With a bitter laugh, Pete nods. "Yeah. Most people. But, with me, it's...different," he finishes, wondering if he really wants to stray into this territory.

"Why?" Patrick asks again, and it no longer seems as if Pete has a choice.

He's only ever told three people about the cancer. His partner at work, Joe, and his grandma. Everyone else who knows as either heard it second-hand, or was there for his diagnosis. Each time, he hated it more, seeing the pain and the loss and the god-damned _pity._ Like he's already dead _._ It's easy to say, it's one sentence, one breath, but the reactions make everything so much harder. Mostly because they're always slightly, _ever so_ slightly, fake. People react how they think they should react, rather than how they actually feel.

But it's different with Patrick, as everything always is.

When he finally spits it out, waiting with baited breath, watching Patrick's face for the usual signs, all he gets is a confused "What's cancer?"

Pete actually laughs. _There's_ a first. "Patrick," he says breathily, trying to compose himself, "I don't know where you come from, but it must be pretty damn perfect if you don't know what _cancer_ is."

"Wha – well, I – it's a disease, it's a fucking _disease,_ isn't it!" Patrick says triumphantly, face lighting up like he's just won a quiz show. Pete waits for him to realise what he just said.

The boy's face drops, eyes wide and lips falling open. "You've got a disease," he says quietly.

Somehow, explaining this to Patrick, a tramp he met a month ago and has yet to learn a thing about, is more upsetting than all the others put together. He doesn't cry, he's used up his crying quota for the day, but watching the kid's face as he explains that he doesn't know how long he has to live is rather painful.

It's not fake. It's not a pat on the shoulder and an offer of _if there's anything I can do,_ it's like he's just kicked the kid in the gut. The boy's hands curl into the bedsheets and grip until his knuckles match their whiteness, he purses his lips and ducks his head, hiding beneath the long wisps of ginger-blond hair that fall across his face.

"It's – it's okay," Pete says feebly, reaching out and touching his fingers to the sleeve of the boy's jumper. Patrick looks at him like he's just tried to kill one of the cats.

"No it's not!" the kid explodes, grabbing Pete by the wrist and staring at him furiously. "You can't die, that's not fair! You're too – I – _no!"_

"There's nothing anyone can do, so-" Pete starts, having had the _why me?!_ crisis quite a while ago now, and not particularly inclined to relive it.

"Yes there fucking is! You can, like, _not_ give up! You can still have a special person!" Patrick cries, the first and last of the tears falling from his eyes before he hurriedly scrubs at them.

Pete nearly fires all his self-deprecating bullets at Patrick in a determined effort to show him how wrong he is, but he can see the fist the boy's hand is balled up in, and the grip of Patrick's fingers on his wrist, and thinks better of it. Patrick's rather terrifyingly strong. It's probably all those years of Mafia training.

He lets the kid calm down a little, all the while attempting to extract his hand from the boy's iron grip. It doesn't work, and he ends up simply patting the boy's fingers, until finally Patrick's grip loosens, and he rests his hand in Pete's.

Pete spends a little while staring rather disgustedly at their joined hands, before realising Patrick's eyes are on him. "I'll look after you," Patrick says softly, giving Pete's fingers a squeeze,"you won't be lonely."

Despite Pete's knee-jerk response of thinking that the kid can piss off if he thinks Pete needs looking after, Pete can't help but smile at the sincerity on Patrick's face. For a terrifying tramp-brat, the boy doesn't half say some adorable things sometimes. Pete decides to play along, mumbling thanks at Patrick.

They sit in silence for a few moments, and Pete finally manages to inch his hand away from Patrick's, using the plate of pineapple as an excuse. Patrick's staring again, with his big blue Bambi eyes, like he always does, as Pete eats a couple more squares, and Pete becomes more and more self-conscious about how he chews. Finally, Pete decides there's only so much staring he can take. He knows what this is about. What's the harm?

"Fine!" Pete sighs, holding his hands up, "If you want another kissing lesson, or whatever, just – fine. Just stop... _looking_ at me like that!"

Patrick recoils, mouth falling into a frown and his arms folding tight across his chest. "I wasn't fucking _looking,_ what the fuck does that mean?!" he snarls, shattering the gentle atmosphere.

"You know, you keep, like..." Pete gesticulates wildly in an attempt to prove his point. "If you want to kiss me, just do it."

"Fuck off, you – I – I don't wanna – no!" Patrick says, panic clouding his face. If Pete's not mistaken, Patrick's steadily turning crimson.

Pete just shrugs, wondering if it's emotional vulnerability that's egging him on, or perhaps simply a desire to finally have some power over the kid. Of course, he doesn't actually _want_ to kiss the kid, no, that would be disgusting, but there's some pleasure in affection that doesn't just involve sex. It's nice to be observed rather than appraised.

"Or," Patrick stutters out, once Pete's been silent for more than a few seconds, "only if you want to, only if – I'm not some shithead who doesn't ask first!" And Pete _doesn't_ want to, really, even if Patrick asked. Why would he want to kiss a tramp on the lips, _again?_

But Patrick's got that look on his face again, the one that melts away the aggression and reveals the scared kid underneath. It's quite sweet, actually, the way he knots his fingers together and gnaws at his lips. Pete stands by his drunk self's thoughts, Patrick's lips are far from his worst feature.

"I know, I know," Pete says, glad for the change of subject and shifting to face Patrick a little more, "just – what else do you want to learn, I guess?" There's not much to learn, really, but Pete suspects Patrick isn't so much interested in kissing as an art form so much as kissing Pete himself. Pete's oddly smug.

"Um," the boy hums, eyes flicking around the room, "I, um, I don't know what to do with my hands," he says, flailing them around as if in demonstration.

"Okay," Pete nods, giving his eyes a final rub and pushing the plate of pineapple out the way. He eyes the cats between them, and decides standing up is the best way to do this. He gets off the bed and beckons Patrick to his feet, positioning them so they're facing each other. "Right."

Pete can practically hear the rational side of his brain tutting, but decides _screw it, I've got cancer and if I want to snog a tramp out of pure loneliness, I will._ He steps a little closer, taking in a deep breath in what he hopes is a subtle attempt at checking that Patrick doesn't smell like rancid manure. He doesn't smell of anything much, actually, apart from maybe cat.

Patrick's looking at him in _that_ way again, the way that usually makes Pete cringe but right now, puts a little flutter in his stomach. He only wishes William could've looked at him that way.

"So," Pete says authoritatively, pushing the thought aside, "hands are easy, really. You can put them anywhere you like, really, but we'll keep it classy," he shrugs, grinning a little, but Patrick obviously doesn't get it. Pete doesn't call him out on it.

"Uh, so," he carries on, deciding never try to be funny ever again, "you wanna go gentle, obviously, don't, like, grab people," he wants to keep the chances of Patrick accidentally strangling him to an absolute minimum, "and, I don't know, just, like, go with what you feel, I guess, so, y'know, you could, uh..." Pete stops for a second, hovering his hands around the boy and wondering if there's a way he can do this without actually touching him.

His hands decide for him, reaching out and settling themselves on Patrick's hoodie-covered shoulders, feeling Patrick's muscles shift as that unnervingly intent stare bores into Pete's brain. The harsh mewl of one of the many cats Patrick's acquired is the only thing that stops Pete falling towards the boy's blue-green eyes. They're quite pretty, really.

"So," Pete coughs, blinking rapidly, "with the hands, you can, like, uh, put them on the person's shoulders, or, their neck," he moves his hands to curve around Patrick's throat, wrists sitting on his collar bones and fingertips tickling the soft hairs just under his ears, "or, their back," he continues, moving to press a hand to the boy's spine.

At that, Patrick flinches with grenade-like force, shoving Pete's hands back towards him. "No," he says, "not there."

Pete holds his hands up, watching Patrick shudder like he's just swallowed rotten meat. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"Don't touch my back," Patrick says quickly, "I have a skin condition."

"Ew," Pete blurts without thinking, instinctively wiping his hands on his jeans and vowing never to let Patrick share his clothes again. "Okay," says uncertainly, thinking of all the surfaces he's going to have to disinfect now.

The boy doesn't, miraculously, give Pete a black eye for that, and simply chews on his lips, not waiting for Pete to speak before he asks tentatively, "where else?"

"Oh, uh," Pete mumbles, all of a sudden very preoccupied with thoughts of flaking skin and pus, "um, you can hold their hands," he says, taking Patrick's tensed fingers between his own and giving them a squeeze, anything to take his mind away from whatever's going on with the kid's back, "or their face," Pete's hands rise to Patrick's cheeks, thumbs stroking over the surprisingly soft skin. He pretends not to notice the way the boy's eyes fall shut and the breath that rushes from his lips.

Pete finds his voice dropping to a murmur as he places his hands on Patrick's hips. They're not William's, they're not what he's used to; they're round and soft and remind him of the huge teddy-bear he once won at a country fair with his grandparents. "So...hips," he mumbles, then shifts his hands lower, "and, like, butts, I guess." He says it with a laugh, yet the tension remains and now he's got his hands hovering over the kid's ass, not daring to touch.

There's a few seconds of excruciating silence as Pete's sanity comes rushing back to him and snatches his hands away and places them safely behind his back. He just nearly touched a tramp's butt. How did he manage to end up here?

 _Ah, yeah, kissing,_ Pete thinks, _that was the point of this._ He pastes a grin onto his face and locks gaze with the kid, who seems blissfully unaware of the implications of impromptu ass-touching. "So, uh, you wanna...?" he questions awkwardly, spreading his arms as if presenting himself for Patrick's hands.

Said hands hover for a moment as the boy's eyes sweep over Pete, until he reaches forward. _Holy crap,_ Pete realises, _he's going for the butt option._ Pete's about to be groped by a smelly homeless kid, what will his mother say? At least this is definitely good enough grounds to throw Patrick out.

But the boy doesn't go anywhere near his ass. Instead, he takes Pete's hands, his thumbs fitting into Pete's palms. His fingers are warm and slightly clammy, and it's intimate in way that makes Pete's stomach squeeze. It's not entirely unpleasant.

Then Patrick's lips are on him, and that's not entirely unpleasant either. He's nervous, Pete can feel the hesitation in the quiver of his bottom lip, the indecision in the tilt of his head. Removing one of his hands from Patrick's, Pete raises his fingers to the boy's cheek to steady him, pushing their mouths together more firmly.

For a novice, the kid's not bad at this. He's learned to keep his saliva to himself, he's learned to be gentle, and now he's stroking Pete's palm with his thumb in a way that is sickeningly sappy and yet makes Pete wish more of his kisses could be like this. There's helium in Pete's head by the time he pulls away.

Patrick blinks at him with doting eyes, and Pete finds himself wishing he was William. Or Gabe. Or James. Or any of the other guys Pete's got nothing but a night and a feeling of neglect from. Just not _Patrick._ Not the thieving enigma kid.

"Thanks," Patrick says quietly, "you're...you're..." his mouth writhes and his eyes dart as if the words are flitting around him, "...thanks," he finishes. "Did the pineapple help?"

Pete smiles at that, still holding Patrick's hand, and nods. "Yeah. It really did." Even Pete's surprised how true it is.

He's seen the boy smile before, little quirks of his mouth when Pete teaches him something new, the occasional grin when Pete tells him a joke he understands, but either Pete hasn't been paying attention, or this is the first time Patrick's really _smiled._ His whole face seems to lift, his eyes crinkling up at the corners and his cheeks balling up. His teeth, Pete notes, are as immaculate as his handwriting.

It's nothing to do with that, though, when Pete leans forward and kisses Patrick again. He's lonely and upset, he needs more kisses than most, and Patrick's _right there,_ so why not? There's something comforting about the boy, even if he is a Russian spy.

-

Patrick doesn't mention the cancer again. He doesn't even do the pitying looks or the anxious _how are you_ s, or offer to do menial tasks as if Pete's incapable of movement. If anything, he smiles more, that same dazzling grin which catches Pete off-guard every time without fail, and Pete finds himself making a conscious effort to stop mentally insulting Patrick at every turn. As much as he's still inherently repulsed by the boy, it's nice to have someone there to talk to. He's got too used to being lonely.

Seeing as they've covered everything, kissing-wise, there won't be anymore of that. It's a relief, really, knowing that Patrick isn't going to try and molest him the first chance he gets. It's also a relief that Patrick doesn't expect anything more from Pete.

What's not a relief is the unmistakeable feeling of disappointment at the back of Pete's head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have no idea how to speak or write Spanish at all (or any of the languages Patrick speaks) so if any of it is wrong, please tell me! Please continue leaving your lovely comments, let me know what you think! (feel free to be unlovely, too; it all helps) xx


	10. You Had Me At "David Bowie"

Patrick likes the city. The feel of the wind on his face is something he doesn't think he'll ever get over, the way it cools his skin and sends his hair up in wisps around his face. He likes the plants, the grass that covers every patch of earth and the trees Pete's taught him about; Yew, Oak, Bay, Birch, Fir. They've all got different shaped leaves, but they're all beautiful. The birds, too, the sounds they make and the way they fly. Patrick tried calling out to them, but they didn't understand him. Pete says animals can't talk, but Patrick's sure they do, he just hasn't figured out the language yet.

And the sky. Even when he was homeless and shivering in the rain, the sky was beautiful. To think that right above his head there's an expanse of air that extends for miles and miles is unthinkable. Then Pete started to tell him about the space beyond the sky, and that the stars are actually huge burning clumps of gas really far away in space, and Patrick had to tell him to stop because his head had begun to hurt.

He'll learn it someday, though. He'll learn it all, all the things the people know, he'll know them too. He'll know what cancer is, and how to cure it.

There's no cure. He tried asking the Google, but all the information was different. Some of the writing said there were special plants Pete could eat, others recommended medicine. Most just talked about _options,_ which might make it go away. None of them said anything with any certainty, though. Pete seemed pretty certain when he said he was going to die. Patrick waits until Pete's at work before crying so hard he nearly vomits.

When Pete's home, and he doesn't have to do stuff in his office, he teaches Patrick things, watches movies with him and tells him what words mean and what things are made of. He's seen the different types of screens Pete has before, but he's never been allowed to use them. Andy said it's because they're fragile. The big one on the wall is the television, the smaller one with the rows of letters is the laptop, and the small, rectangular one Pete keeps in his pocket is a phone. Pete never lets him near that one, but he told Patrick it was for talking to other people who also have phones, sort of like the thing Andy talks into sometimes.

The best screen, though, is the tiny one. Pete shows it to him one evening when he's back from work, and one of the people on the television catches Patrick's attention.

"What are those...things?" he asks, pointing at the TV, at the person nodding their head at something or other, then to his ear.

It takes a second for Pete to register what Patrick's saying, but his eyes eventually widen and he laughs, "oh, earphones? They, like, play music and stuff."

"I know," Patrick huffs, looking away. "I just didn't know what they were called." He's seen them before, he's not a complete fucking idiot. "Earphones," he repeats, slowly. Phones that go in ears.

"Wait," Pete says slowly, and Patrick feels the sofa shift, "you, like, know about _music,_ right?"

" _Yes,"_ he growls, staring steadfastly at the TV, "the sounds the piano makes."

"Oh, you play piano?" Pete asks, his mouth quirking into a smile, "you don't know what plants are but you play the piano?" There's laughter in Pete's voice that makes Patrick squirm, the same as when he didn't realise it wasn't normal to speak Spanish, "What the hell?"

"I fucking know what fucking _plants_ are, jackass," he spits, but Pete's already starting to talk over him.

"So what music do you like?" the man asks, shifting closer to Patrick and pressing the button that makes the television go silent.

Patrick shrugs, curling in on himself. "Piano music," he says in a stupidly small voice.

Pete does his infuriating laugh again, and Patrick wonders if kicking him in the shin breaches the no-violence rule. "Yeah, but, like, what piano music? I mean, I'm not _that_ into classical, but, like, I know Mozart and stuff? And, Chopin, and the Jurassic Park dude. Who do you like most?"

There's a chance Patrick might cry when he tries and fails to decode what Pete is talking about; he doesn't know what most of those words mean or who any of those people are and he can't answer Pete's question and Pete's going to think he's so stupid and he _hates_ being called stupid, more than fucking _anything._ In the end, he just clenches his fists and says a quiet, "I don't know."

Patrick refuses to look at Pete, but he feels the sofa move and feels Pete's eyes on him. "So what piano music do you play?" Pete says, not unkindly, but sometimes Patrick can't tell. He's too used to lies.

"Uh," _I'm not stupid I'm not stupid – "_ I just, like, think of it."

"You make it up?" Pete asks, and when Patrick finally tears his gaze away from the floor, he sees that Pete's facing him, legs crossed and eyes curious. It's sort of nice, that Pete doesn't seem scared of him anymore. "That's really cool," he says, and it sounds like he means it. _Cool,_ as it turns out, is another temperature word that can mean something completely different.

The genuine fascination in Pete's eyes is just enough to force a small smile out of Patrick, and he'd love _love_ to talk more about this, about his music and what it means to him and how it makes him feel, but he can't, because it'll lead to more of Pete's fucking _questions._ Besides, they took his piano away.

"So...you don't know any, like, music artists?" Pete says, and _here we fucking go again._

He pumps as much poison as he can muster into his snarling " _No,"_ but Pete doesn't seem at all fazed, and keeps grinning his stupid grin with his too-big teeth which actually makes Patrick's chest hurt a little. With a laugh and a pat to Patrick's knee, he springs off the couch and begins to rummage through the wooden box full of drawers on the other side of the room.

"Found it!" he announces, bounding back towards Patrick and flopping back down on the sofa. A small, thin object lands in Patrick's lap, and he looks up, bewildered, into Pete's blinding smile.

"Uh," he mumbles, picking it up and turning it over in his fingers, "what does it do?" It's blue, with a white circle on one side decorated with little symbols.

That's apparently the exact question Pete wanted him to ask, because the man giggles incessantly and snatches the thing out of Patrick's hands, fiddling with something on the top edge of the object. "This," he starts, frowning at it, "come _on,_ please have charge," he mutters under his breath, before his face lights up as bright as the screen just has, "this, is an iPod. _God,_ I haven't used this in years. It plays music, and it also needs – here we are." He thrusts a tangle of wires at Patrick.

"Earphones!" he announces triumphantly, because he _fucking remembered._ He feels even better when he sees the way Pete's eyes crinkle at the edges.

It takes a little while for Pete to finish fumbling around with the wires and the _Pod,_ or whatever it is, but eventually, he seems satisfied, and leans so far towards Patrick with the little ear things he's only just short of shoving them in Patrick's ears for him.

"Will they make noise?" he asks, probably stupidly. Although he trusts Pete more than practically anyone, he's still hyper-aware of the noises people have put in his ears before; the yelling and the booming and the high-pitched squalls which left his ears ringing for hours, made him jump and scream and cry. But Pete wouldn't do that. Pete's a friend.

"Yeah," Pete nods, "but, like, I'll keep the volume low at first, just in case you, like, have some kind of weird hearing," he laughs, but he's got that uncertainty in his eyes, his brows pinching together minutely like they always do when Patrick slips up, says too much. It's a sign that he needs to leave, soon, before Pete figures out anything that might make him call the police. Patrick pushes the thought aside like he always does.

The pieces of plastic sit rather awkwardly in his ears at first, edges pushing too hard into the ridges of cartilage, and Patrick's a little scared that if he tries to adjust them, they might get stuck in his brain. Pete does it for him, twisting them minutely until they don't hurt anymore. They make everything sound strange, like he's underwater, and he can hear each creak in his head as Pete fumbles with the wires.

Then everything changes. There's piano, everywhere, all around him, clear and full and invisible yet so tangible Patrick has to stop himself glancing around the room for the player. Then there's a voice, a male person, maybe, he can't always tell, saying words, saying them over the music, _in tune with_ the music, then another voice joins in, saying words with different notes in harmony with the first man.

He doesn't know what the man's talking about, doesn't know what some of the words mean but he feels them, feels the other sounds through him when they soar over the piano, the rawness of the man's voice as it reaches the top notes. And it's _everywhere._ He has no room for thoughts, only notes which worm their way into the farthest corners of his skull and begin to dance. He hardly even realises his eyes have fallen shut.

When the music is over, silence seems unnatural.

The story the man has told him runs over and over in his head, Patrick wants to help him answer his questions, even though he's never been to wherever Mars is, he wants to meet the girl, ask her how she stopped people telling her _no,_ whether she found her friend again. He hopes she did.

"Well?" Pete asks, voice muffled through the headphones. Patrick picks them out of his ears and stares at them, wondering how they make a piece of music seem like an entire world. When he doesn't answer Pete's question, the man just laughs.

"Who's that man?" Patrick asks, trying to shake the squeezed-up feeling in his chest and throw off the tingles running across his skin. He feels a little faint, actually.

"That was David Bowie," Pete smiles, showing him the picture of the white-faced man on the tiny screen.

"Why did he sound like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like..." the words bounce around Patrick's head, and he blinks back the sudden surge of moisture in his eyes, "like...he's broken." It's the only way he can think to put it.

Pete shrugs somewhere in Patrick's peripheral vision as his gaze sinks to the floor. "Well, it's, like, a sad song, I guess, or, well, not really _sad,_ I don't know – are you alright?" When Patrick snaps his eyes back to the other man, he's watching Patrick's shaking hands pull at a loose thread on his nearly-brand-new jeans.

Those sounds, they were nothing like Patrick's ever been able to create. Nothing like Patrick's ever heard. He wonders how this beautiful thing, this music, has been kept from him for so long. It fills a space in his chest that he didn't even know was empty.

Warmth settles through his fingers as Pete reaches out and takes Patrick's hand, squeezing it as if to wring out the shakes. "Hey, it's okay – I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -"

"Don't fucking apologise, that was fucking amazing," Patrick asserts, his voice cracking. He tightens his grasp of Pete's hand; he wants to hold it closer, wants to bring it to his face and nuzzle his nose into it, wants to curl up against Pete and purr and purr and purr. But that's not allowed.

Instead, he stays put, trying not to stare, because Pete doesn't like him staring. It's not his fault, Pete's got these brown eyes, the same colour as the stuff which Patrick thought was square mud but tasted better than anything he's eaten in his life. _Chocolate,_ he remembers. Chocolate with streaks of sunshine, too, that's what's in Pete's eyes. Patrick feels a bit warmer on the inside whenever they're on him.

They lose the rest of the evening to the music, Pete showing Patrick every different style he can think of, eventually fetching the laptop and showing Patrick a place where he can listen to all of it. Well, Pete said it would be impossible to listen to _all music,_ but Patrick's willing to rise to the challenge. That made Pete laugh. Pete's been laughing more, recently.

Somehow, Pete's hand keeps finding its way back to Patrick's.

-

A few nights later, Patrick's alone again.

It's a Saturday night, or, more accurately, a Sunday morning, and Pete's inevitably disappeared to the place which makes him come back smiling too wide to be real. He'll be miserable when he wakes up, and Patrick'll have to make him some disgusting frothy drink to get him out of bed. Not that he minds. He promised he'd look after Pete, and he tries his best.

But he doesn't know what to do when Pete comes home with someone else.

It's happened a few times since he's been here; Gabe was the first, then a mean one, then an even meaner one, then someone called Alex who was actually quite nice to Patrick and cooked weird flat breads in the pan in the morning, but after a few days of kissing, Pete came home sad, and Patrick didn't see Alex again. Then there was the night Pete stayed out and came home crying. Tonight's the first time, since then, that he's brought another home.

They're pressed close, as always, laughing at nothing and completely oblivious to anything but one another's lips. Pete doesn't seem to notice Patrick watching from the couch, his eyes set only upon the fridge, where the metal cans are. Patrick's pretty fucking scared of those cans; they hiss angrily when they're opened, and Patrick always has to rush to stop himself hissing right back. He'll get them one day.

Tonight's new friend has dark hair and a mouth that's too big for his face, fumbling with words around gulps from a can, leaning too close to Pete and sometimes biting at his ear, which is frankly fucking _rude._ Patrick's not allowed to bite people, or he gets hurt. He'd never bite a friend, though.

They eventually drift upstairs, taking their cans and their slurping noises with them, their hands tightly interlocked. Patrick pushes down a surge of envy.

He tries not to think about whatever it is they might be doing upstairs; more naked fighting, if the things he's seen on the internet are anything to go by. People seem to be rather obsessed with it, there's so many videos of people rolling around together and making strange noises; Patrick's beginning to understand why there are so many people around – all they seem to do is make babies. When he asked Pete about it, though, he took the laptop away, and now the Google won't show Patrick the videos. He's not allowed to use it when Pete's not around, anyway, Pete says there's nasty things on it, and Patrick didn't understand, but he didn't question it, either. He didn't want to seem stupid.

Instead, he buries himself under the books he found on the shelf. There's so much he doesn't understand, it's difficult to read fucking _anything_ because he falls at every new noun. He tried his best, in the daytime – but his best isn't anywhere to be seen at this time of night, so he settles for the tattered maps on the bottom shelf.

He's seen diagrams denoting the floor-plan of buildings, and several small pictures of the layout of streets and roads dotted around the busier parts of London, but this. _Fuck._ This is something else. These people have documented every house, road, town, city and put it in this book, the coloured lines flowing over the pages, bright as the ones on Pete's body. Patrick wastes a good half an hour just trying to read it before scrambling for a pen and paper and starting to copy out the lines, squinting as he crushes his handwriting to fit on each road, starting with Pete's road (he found it surprisingly quickly) and working outwards.

 

He's not sure how long he's been asleep on the sofa when he jerks awake, hearing movement behind him. He stills, the papers rustling as his senses lug themselves back to him. After thirty seconds of suspicious staring at the doorway, a figure strides through it, their hands fumbling with dark hair and the cuffs of a leather jacket. Leather's made from dead animal skin, Pete told him. He feels a squirm of hatred in his stomach as the man heads towards the kitchen.

Having been in this position quite a few times, Patrick's learnt that he can peer over the back of the couch and remain unseen from the kitchen, so he wills his muscles still and eyes the stranger. There's light filtering through the kitchen window, pale and grey, highlighting his lean figure. He has big black boots on, and there's mud on them, flaking off onto the kitchen floor with each step he takes. Pete doesn't like dirt.

The man pats himself down until he hears the clink of keys, then reaches for something on the counter. The stack of £20 notes has been there ever since Patrick arrived – to what purpose, he doesn't know – and the man counts them with a flick of his thumb and puts them in his pocket, glancing around as he does so. And if living on the streets taught Patrick anything at all, it's how to tell if someone is stealing. The man's just about to reach into the fridge when Patrick jumps up, simmering with rage.

Patrick counts the seconds as the man takes another can out of the fridge, shuts the door and looks around, and watches the shock cross his face when his eyes meet Patrick's. Then the man's face falls back into its bored expression, and he smirks. "You're the creepy one, right?"

"I'm not creepy," Patrick says automatically, watching the can as it spits and hisses and wishing he could do the same.

The man laughs, a squelching, guttural sound, as if someone had broken an egg near Patrick's ear, and proceeds to look through the cupboards as if he owns the place. Patrick can't quite get his head round what he's seeing, watching as the stranger's hand crunches around a packet of unopened crisps and yanks them from the cupboard. _He should stop, right? He should be scared of getting caught,_ Patrick thinks, carefully moving himself to the middle of the horseshoe-shaped kitchen, blocking the man's exit.

"Stop," he says, pathetically, because he can't think of anything else to say, he doesn't have the words. The man smiles like he knows this all too well.

"Oh yeah? What're you gonna do, kid?" He takes a sip from the can and leans against the counters, crisps tucked under his arm. Patrick's hands curl into fists, but he _can't._ Pete will kick him out if he hits someone else. When he stays silent, the man carries on. "You gonna hurt me? Gonna call the police?"

 _The police!_ Patrick thinks, _they're scary._ He's run away from them enough times to know that. Maybe the man's scared of them too. "Yes," he says, sticking out his chin and telling himself it doesn't matter that he has no idea how to call them – shouting out the window should do the trick.

"Ah, that's funny," the man says airily, pairing his smile with another of those fucking horrid laughs, "because Pete told me how you met. And I reckon, if it's your word against mine, they're probably not gonna cut the thieving tramp much slack."

Patrick frowns, his head worming its way around the words, trying desperately to make sense of them, fitting tone and body language and context together to cover the gaps in his knowledge of language. He's just about worked out that the man means that the police might blame _Patrick_ for the stealing instead before he feels a shove in his shoulder. The man walks past him and out of the kitchen.

It's a challenge, now, as Patrick whips round and catches the guy's arm, yanking him back and growling as loud as he dares. "Give back Pete's money, you piece of shit," he spits, tightening his grip on the man's arm even as his face contorts in pain.

"Hey – Jesus, get off me," he splutters, yanking his arm out of Patrick's grip and rubbing what are hopefully the beginnings of bruises. "Pete's right, you are a pain in the arse."

Patrick feels ice slip down his spine at the man's words, and his face heats up. "That's a lie," he says, but it doesn't sound fierce so much as just naive. He so, urgently wants to hit the man.

"You wish. He wouldn't shut up about it actually, how he wishes he'd never met you. I wouldn't jump to his defence if I were you." He brushes past Patrick's dumbstruck figure and heads towards the hall, still sipping from the can.

Patrick follows half-heartedly, the words bouncing around his skull. He should hit this guy, he should make him regret laying a finger on something that wasn't his, for taking advantage of Pete and pretending to be his special person. But Pete said he can't. He's not allowed, and he can't find the words to make the guy back down, every sentence becoming more difficult to decipher as his concentration is replaced with confusion. There's nothing he can do but stare.

The man meets his eyes for a few seconds, eyebrows raised in expectation, and then laughs. "Well, I'd best be off, then. Send my best wishes to Pete," he raises the can and crisps as if in homage, "and tell him I'm long gone." He gives Patrick a sickening smile and a short wave. "Bye, freak-show."

Patrick has barely opened his mouth to shout before the slamming door beats him to it.

He just let someone steal from Pete. The man just took Pete's money and walked out, and Patrick did nothing to stop him, because he was too fucking _scared._ Of the police, of their questions, of what Pete might do if Patrick punched somebody else. He should have done _something._

Sam meows from across the room, and Patrick gives him a long look. Even the cat probably understands more than he does. Sam hadn't just let someone take his friend's money. Sam hadn't been defeated by fucking figures of speech. Sam didn't think he'd found his special person, only to find that they wished they'd never met him at all.

It's strangely reminiscent of his nights on the street as he curls up on the couch and pulls the maps over the top of him; he feels an instinctual need to hide, to burrow down into the cushions until no-one can find him. He's angry, always so angry, but he'd been better, these last few weeks – happier than he'd been perhaps ever. The past few nights, he'd slept with music in his dreams, a new universe in his brain. Now he's guilty and cowardly and stupid and hated, and there's that same question again, over and over in his head, the one he can't answer. _What's wrong with you?_

He's asleep before the sun rises.  


	11. I Don't Know What I Was Expecting, But It Sure As Hell Wasn't This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you so much to everyone who's left a comment on this, it honestly makes my day to hear what you guys think and I've had such amazing intelligent analysis from all of you and it makes this thing an absolute joy to write. I'm sorry I don't reply to all of them, I feel I would just be repeatedly thanking all of you for being so awesome (which you are, by the way).   
> Please let me know what you think of this chapter, it's kinda important and hopefully exciting and I hope I don't disappoint anyone. Thank you all again! xx  
> p.s. Shoutout to Young and (a) Menace for being a wonderful cacophony of chaos.

Pete is _pissed._ Not only is he spectacularly hungover, which automatically lowers his patience levels a considerably, but that damn orange cat is sitting at the end of his bed, blinking at him as he rolls himself from the covers and sits up. The man he took home is gone too, but that's nothing new.

The house is suspiciously quiet as he stalks through it, now fully clothed and clasping a squirming cat which he dumps unceremoniously out of the back door. It gives him a reproachful look, distinctly ruffled, and Pete feels a cruel satisfaction when it finally turns its back on him and jumps on top of the fence. It's his damn house.

There's no prizes at all for guessing who let that fat ginger thing into the house; Pete knows it's the other fat ginger thing flopped on his couch, looking infuriatingly peaceful as Pete seethes his way back to the kitchen. He's pretty sure he makes the kettle boil with his glare alone.

He takes all his various pills, along with an aspirin or two to tame the furious ache in his skull, and flops down at the kitchen table, burying his face in his hands. He hasn't felt this low in a while; he's due for a blood transfusion in a few days time, meaning he's doomed to a purgatory of exhaustion until then. The week leading up to it is always the worst. He thought sex would help, which it did, for approximately eight minutes, but now the guy's gone, and Pete's barely even surprised. He seemed flighty.

It's only when he stands up to find the cereals he sees that the money on the counter is gone.

He doesn't lose hope right away; he checks to see if it's fallen off at some point, perhaps he moved it to the dresser, maybe he forgot all about his little scheme and put the notes in his wallet. There's a distinct sinking feeling in his chest as he realises that this isn't the case.

The sigh he lets out is one of frustration and disappointment. He was only a few days shy of taking the notes back and chiding himself for ever mistrusting Patrick; the kid gave him his word, after all. But, Pete thinks, feeling rather stupid, the first time he met Patrick, the boy _stole_ from him, for crying out loud. Has Pete really got so embroiled in Patrick that he's forgotten that?

He steels himself to confront the kid, but, at the last second, diverts his steps up to his bedroom; first, he needs to check that Patrick _on_ _ly_ stole the money. Money is replaceable – if his laptop or his phone is gone, he might end up having his monthly breakdown a little early.

To his relief, the safe is untouched, but his watch – a £9,250 IWC Schaffhausen Portofino – is nowhere to be seen. He feels a lead weight land in the pit of his stomach when he realises he must have left it on the bedside table, in full view of thieves. His dad gave him that watch. The fact that Patrick must've come upstairs and taken it whilst he was sleeping makes Pete feel a little sick. And more than a little angry. 

And to have the audacity to still be asleep on Pete's couch, wearing clothes Pete bought for him and filled with food Pete made him, well. It makes Pete hate Patrick, that familiar feeling of disgust bubbling up to the surface once more. He storms down the stairs, deciding to dodge any pathetic tramp bullshit the kid might throw at him as an excuse, plus any punches. He won't be a pushover.

Despite Pete's thundering footsteps, Patrick's still fast asleep when Pete rounds on him; he's covered in what looks like road maps, and he's curled up in the same position as the cat at the foot of the couch. They're both a picture of peace. It's a shame, a real shame, that Patrick turned out rotten. Pete was starting to enjoy spending time with him.

But that doesn't change the fact that his thieving tramp fingers have been all over Pete's stuff. He dreads to think what kind of awful germs are spread over his beloved watch – maybe traces of old food, maybe spit, maybe – ugh, maybe all manner of bodily fluids. The thought makes Pete shudder, and he carefully avoids Patrick's hands as he pushes one of his sleeves up in search of his watch. If the kid's wearing it, Pete might end up breaking his self-induced pacifism and clocking Patrick round the head.

There's a glint of something gold underneath the fabric of his jumper, and Pete pounces on it, simultaneously marvelling at the kid's sleeping ability. He doesn't stir as Pete shoves his sleeve up to the elbow and sees his beloved – ah. And sees a pure gold band sitting at the top of his forearm.

 _What in the name of hell,_ Pete thinks as he crouches down for a closer look. The gold looks back, so highly polished that it throws Pete's reflection back at him, distorted with the curve of the metal. It's not his watch, but it looks just as expensive, and that reminds him; the kid's a criminal. No prizes for guessing where he might have got the bracelet.

It takes Pete a little while to work the band off the kid's arm – Patrick keeps flinching in his sleep, like it's hurting him – but when he does, he feels its weight, its size and thickness and knows this is no cheap replica. Whoever Patrick stole this from must be sorely missing it.

The kid's face twitches as Pete pulls his sleeve back down, and his eyes slide open, his arm moving back to his chest. Pete jumps back instinctively, shoving the band in the pocket of his jumper and standing up quickly, almost tripping over the coffee table behind him. He rights himself with a huff and a glare as Patrick blinks at him.

He smiles distantly as he focusses on the older man, but Pete's not having any of it. He points a finger at Patrick and growls, "Where the hell is my watch?" He's rather proud of how aggressive he sounds.

Any trace of sleep disappears from Patrick's expression. "What?" he says, shifting his legs to the floor and fixing Pete with a stare icy enough to skate on, "What the fuck?"

"You know exactly _what the fuck,_ Patrick," Pete scathes, folding his arms. "There was money on that kitchen counter, and a very expensive watch on my bedside table and they're both missing."

"What, you think _I_ took them?" the boy retorts, hands tightly curled around the edge of the sofa. For a second, he looks confused, pained, even, tongue flicking over his lips and his eyebrows pinched together. Then it disappears, and Pete wonders if he imagined it.

"Of course _you_ took them, who the hell else would take them? You're the only damn thief I know!" Pete's close to yelling, and even closer to telling Patrick to get out and never come back.

Patrick stands at that, so close to Pete that the man reels back a few paces, where he's beyond punching distance. "Your fucking _friend,_ that's who! He fucking left during the night and he...uh..." the kid falters, scrunching his face up and reaching out a hand to steady himself, stumbling a little. Fucking pity ploy.

"You expect me to buy that?" Pete laughs bitterly, "What have you done with them? Did you swap my watch for drugs, did you use it to pay off some gang member, is that who you're running from?"

But Patrick doesn't seem to be paying any attention to Pete; he's clutching at the arm of the sofa, swaying a little as if he might collapse. Pete's hand slips into the pocket of his jumper as he sees Patrick pull at his sleeve.

Pete takes out the gold band and toys with it, feeling increasingly deflated as he realises this is only going to end with both of them gaining an enemy. "Where did you get this," he says flatly.

The look on the boy's face when he sees the object in Pete's hands makes Pete step back slightly. "Give that back," he says, and it's not a shriek or a yell but a low, snarling threat.

Pete won't let himself be ruffled, though, and keeps on playing with the band, feeling powerful in the midst of Patrick's lack of composure. He's going to win this battle, he's certain of it. "Who'd you take it from?" he wonders aloud, trying to remember if he himself owns something like this.

"Give it _back,"_ Patrick says again, and now he's advancing on Pete, knuckles white and the muscles in his neck defined with tension.

"Not until you tell me where you got it," Pete says petulantly, "and what you've done with my damn watch."

All of Pete's confidence disappears, however, as Patrick lets out a wild – _inhuman –_ cry and lunges towards him, hands outstretched and eyes furious. Pete slams his eyes shut as his back hits the lounge wall and Patrick careers into him, grip painful on his upper arms and stale breath hot on his face. _This is it,_ he thinks, _this is where he kills me._

He tightens his grip on the band as Patrick scrabbles for it, holding it as far out of the boy's way as he can. His eyes snap open when Patrick starts to snarl.

It's a low, rattling sound, a little like someone slurping at a smoothie, but what strikes Pete is how his mind reacts to it; it doesn't just scare him, it injects an instinctual _terror_ right into his core, as if his ancient ancestors had run from that very noise, as if he's prey in the claws of a predator. He lets go of the ring.

The snarls die away in Patrick's throat as he backs away from Pete, focussed solely upon wrestling the bracelet over his hand and shoving it up his arm until it sits beneath his elbow. He covers it with his hand for a few seconds, eyes shut and breathing fast. Pete just stares.

"It's _mine,_ " he says gruffly, pulling his sleeve down over the gold, "don't you _dare_ touch it again."

Pete doesn't say anything, just stays pressed against the wall, his heart hammering out of his chest. He can feel the pain more clearly now, in his shoulders where he was shoved, in his arms where he was grabbed. When he looks down at the hand that held the ring, there's long, white scratch marks trailing down his wrist, and crescent indents in his palm. They sting when he stretches his fingers.

"Get out," he says quietly. He can't do this anymore.

"I didn't steal your stupid fucking watch, okay?" Patrick says, running a hand through his hair. He has his back to Pete. He sounds exhausted.

Pete would be willing to believe it if it wasn't for all the other lies he's been fed over the past couple of months. "Look, Patrick. I can't have you in my house if I don't trust you. And I don't trust you," he says simply.

The boy turns, keeping his distance, his shoulders hunched and his face flushed. He speaks slowly and shakily, as if something inside him has reached its breaking point. "It wasn't me. It was your shitty friend, I woke up and he was there and he took the money from the kitchen. I was gonna stop him but I couldn't 'cause you told me not to fucking hit anyone. I don't know if he took your watch but he probably did. I made a promise not to steal from you and I won't break it, why the fuck would I give this up for a hundred quid and a watch I don't know how to use?"

He's got a point. Pete looks at him for a few long moments, meeting his dull gaze and weighing up the boy's arguments. It makes sense; Patrick would have to be pretty stupid to steal from Pete only to keep sleeping on his couch. "Okay," he concedes, "but that doesn't mean I trust you. What's that," he gestures vaguely in Patrick's direction, "thing? Where'd you get it?"

"Fuck off," Patrick says with no real force. "You said you wouldn't ask questions."

"Yeah. Well," Pete scoffs, "I've changed my mind. Who the hell are you?"

"Fuck off," Patrick repeats, frowning at his socks. "You promised."

"No, Patrick. I'm done, I can't keep on like this. Tell me who you are." He's sick of guessing.

"Stop it," the boy says, and he begins to back away, his eyes darting as if there's snipers trained on him. "Stop it."

"For god's sake, who are you?! Why don't you know what stuff is?! Or is that a lie too?" Pete spits, his voice raised and his hands flying about the place in frustration.

"Stop it, I-"

"Who are you running from?! What've you done?! Why are you so stupid?" he yells, watching with grim satisfaction as Patrick cowers away from him, his hands jammed into his eyes and his fingers tugging at his hair.

"Stop," the boy says weakly, and Pete has to remember that he is just that, a boy. Whoever he is and whatever he's done to get himself into this situation, it probably wasn't entirely his fault. Pete remembers his mother's voice telling him _Shouting will never get you anywhere_ whenever he threw a toddler-tantrum. It's no way to deal with someone like Patrick, either.

They both take a moment to calm down, looking around at anything but each other, and the lawyer in Pete tells him to tread lightly. He's got to handle Patrick with care, otherwise, the kid might just close up and refuse to tell him anything at all.

He makes his way over to the couch and sits down, shuffling the ruffled maps into a neat pile and placing them on the coffee table. He's careful not to disturb Sam, who's somehow slept through all of this; the cat might help with negotiations. When an agitated Patrick meets finally meets his eyes, Pete beckons him over, and the kid sullenly obliges.

"I'm not stupid," Patrick says quietly once he's sat down. He's staring at the floor, his hands tying themselves in knots, face reddened and hair falling into his eyes.

"I know," Pete nods, calm and collected. "I'm sorry I said that. I didn't mean it."

Patrick stays silent, which Pete decides to take as a good thing. He's not being sworn at, so it's a start.

"However," he continues, "I _did_ mean it when I said I needed to know who you are. And, like, not even just because I need to know if I can trust you, I _want_ to know, Patrick. I've never met anyone like you, and, y'know, you're my friend, I want to get to know you." In Pete's experience, the word _friend_ has the same effect upon Patrick as the word _walkies_ upon a puppy; sure enough, the boy's face brightens minutely, and he finally makes eye contact with Pete.

"So, like, can you tell me?" Pete cajoles when Patrick remains quiet. He knows it won't be that simple, but he needs to start somewhere.

A long, rather tense silence stretches out after Pete's question, during which Patrick's bottom lip receives a mauling from his teeth, as do his fingernails. Pete knows not to push, so he simply waits, watching Patrick sift through whatever thoughts are occupying his head.

Finally, and a little anticlimactically, the kid says softly, "You'll call the police."

Pete can't promise _not_ to, not when Patrick just attacked him, not when he has no idea what terrible things the kid might have done in the past. But he _can_ be reasonable about this. "I don't intend to. But I might have to if I think I'm morally obliged to, if you catch my meaning."

Patrick doesn't look like he's caught anything at all, he just says in that same, unnervingly weak, un-Patrick-like voice, "You can't."

"Well, have you killed anyone?" Pete asks, murder being top in his list of unforgivable crimes.

"No!" Patrick snaps, staring at Pete with a look of utter outrage. "I'd never do something like that, you f-"

"Alright, okay," Pete says steadily, holding his hands out in an attempt to pacify Patrick. "I'm just, y'know, testing the water. Turn of phrase," he adds when Patrick's eyebrows pinch together. "Have you raped anyone?"

"I don't know what that is," Patrick sighs, bringing his knees to his chest and huddling into the couch.

"It's when you, like, have sex with someone without their consent."

"Why the fuck would I do that? I haven't had sex," Patrick scoffs, folding his arms. Pete feels a brief pity for the kid, then realises that perhaps not everyone has to cure themselves with sex. He decides to move on.

"Okay, so, have you hurt anyone? Like, badly?" Mutilation is third on the list; he can't have an eye-gouger or an ear-slicer living in his house.

Patrick thinks about this just long enough for Pete to begin to panic, then says, "No. Not badly, not – deliberately. No worse than I just hurt you," he glances at Pete, gaze heavy with guilt. "I'm sorry." It's forceful, but not aggressive.

"Well, we can talk about that later," Pete says gently, waving a hand like he wasn't just scared out of his mind, "but, y'know, if you really haven't done any of those things, then I, y'know. I won't call the police."

"You promise?" Patrick asks slowly, eyes narrowing.

"Yes, I promise." He's not being entirely honest; if it turns out to be child abduction or drug trafficking or some other vile activity, then to hell with promises, this is real life. "So, why don't you tell me, and I'll decide whether I want to, y'know...uh..." He struggles for words, but Patrick interrupts.

" _Keep me?_ " he snarls, his eyes darkening to a glare, and Pete realises this feeling of superiority might have gone to his head.

"Well, no, no," he backtracks, his stuttering mess of a personality spilling over his professionalism. "Just...if I think that, like, _no,_ this big secret isn't something I can handle, then we'll have to go our separate ways. I'll give you some cash, and some clothes, whatever you need, of course."

Patrick nods, his eyes moving to Sam, who's trying to worm his way into the boy's lap. He cuddles the cat close, and for a moment, Pete wishes he'd have simply let this lie; he doesn't want to have to ask Patrick to leave. Sam would hate him forever. In fact, Sam would probably leave too.

"It's not something I've done," Patrick starts to say, and Pete's heart leaps a little because _this might be it,_ "it's something I...I don't know," he finishes with a sigh, dropping his head. "I _can't,"_ he pleads to no-one in particular, "I just... _can't."_

There's a few moments of silence as Patrick agonises over his words, and Pete nearly feels bad; the boy looks so distressed, as if Pete's twisting a wire tighter and tighter around his neck.

Tears crack through Patrick's voice as he pushes his fingers into his eyes and shakes his head, "You can't tell anyone, you can't, I don't know what they'll do to me, _please,_ you can't tell anyone."

At this point, Pete'll agree to anything in order to get to the bottom of this. He nods quickly and blurts affirmation at Patrick, mind reeling ahead.

"I haven't done anything," the kid repeats, "I'm just not...I'm not..." The sentence remains unfinished, but Pete fills in the gaps with the first thing that springs to mind. He'd been so obsessed with potential crimes, he'd forgotten the crux of the matter; Patrick doesn't know anything about the world. He attracts cats. He heals at lightning speed.

"Uh, Patrick," Pete begins, preparing himself for a question he never thought he'd soberly ask, "are you an alien?"

The boy makes a noise of frustration, "I don't know what that _is."_

"It's like...someone who isn't from here. Like, not from this planet. Not...not human," Pete finishes, wondering how years of rational thought have led to a conversation like _this_.

Patrick hides his face a half-second before Pete's stomach drops.

"Um...right." Pete looks around his lounge, as if the mother-ship is upon them already, then back at Patrick, who's now a shade between fuchsia and marinara sauce. "So, so, uh..." he tries to think of some intelligent question to ask but ends up just staring dumbly at the extraterrestrial life form in front of him and wondering if he owns a phaser.

"You can't tell anyone. I don't know what they'll do to me." Patrick's voice is quiet and measured, but his eyes scream panic beyond belief.

Rather than make any more promises, Pete just gapes, "What are you? Where do you come from?" He supposes this is the point where Patrick will laugh and say "Just kidding, I'm from Wolverhampton," and this will all have been some huge misunderstanding.

Instead, the boy breathes a heavy sigh, leaning forward on the couch and keeping Sam close to him; the cat's staring at Pete like he's a terrible person, and Pete marvels at the bond between them, wonders if it's something to do with who Patrick is. Maybe he's secretly a cat.

"I, uh..." Patrick starts, nosing Sam's head and flicking his eyes at Pete as if to check he hasn't run away screaming yet, which is not an unreasonable presumption and may indeed happen in the near future, "I...I'll show you."

Pete barely has time to freak out before Patrick's rising from the sofa, placing Sam down on the coffee table and looking at Pete expectantly. His hair's a mess from being pulled on,  his eyes bleary having had fingers pushed restlessly into them. When Pete stands up to follow, Patrick looks a little like he's walking to the gallows.

Pete wants to comfort him, tell him that whatever it is, it can't be _that_ bad, but with what he just heard, it really _could_ be _that bad._ The word _alien_ keeps bouncing around his head like a bullet round a prison cell. Hopefully, it'll be enough to wake him up.

They walk in silence, Patrick leading Pete through the house and into his bedroom. Once Pete's inside, the boy shuts the curtains and the door too, only stopping to let in a pining Sam. Then he simply stands in the middle of the room, staring at the floor. Pete places a hand on the doorknob. 

"Uh, Patrick?" Pete coaxes gently, when he's been hovering around the kid for a good minute. Patrick's breathing very fast, and his hands are curled so tight, his knuckles are bleached pale blue. Pete wonders briefly if he's trying to transform.

He's just about ready for Patrick to shed his skin and reveal his true lizard-man self, when the boy sighs shortly and whispers, "Help me if it's not okay. Please." It takes Pete a few seconds to realise Patrick's not talking to him at all, but to the cat, looking up at the boy from the floor.

Patrick seems close to tears when he finally meets Pete's eyes; Pete's beginning to feel a little like a medieval torturer given the task of wounding Patrick until he cracks. It looks like he's already succeeded.

He watches with wide eyes as Patrick reaches for the hem of his jumper, his shoulders hunched and his fingers trembling. Pete remembers the mysterious skin condition, and braces himself for tentacles. If this is real, does that make this first contact?

When Patrick finally wrestles the jumper over his head, Pete doesn't quite see it at first. Well, _them._ What he does see is the various belts wrapped tightly around Patrick's chest and stomach, and as he undoes them, one by one, Pete sees white fluff peeking over the boy's shoulders. He doesn't fully register what he's looking at, though, until the last belt is unbuckled and tossed to the floor.

Patrick's head is bowed as he stretches out a pair of feathered white wings, each several feet in length, the longest of the feathers brushing below his hips as they fan out into broad curves, light filtering through them. He turns a little, and Pete moves closer, blinking as he stares at the place on the boy's back where pale skin fades to white and fluff covers the thick bones of his wings, protruding just below his shoulder blades. The ropes of muscle between his back and his wings flex as he breathes, the soft rustle of feathers filling Pete's head.

"Just fucking say something, please," Patrick says thickly, after several moments of stunned silence. His gaze is fixed upon Pete warily, as if he might do something stupid.

Pete takes a few steps back, unable to look at anything but the wings, the _wings,_ that twitch minutely with each move Patrick makes. "Well," he gulps, "y'know. There you have it." He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head a little. No amount of life experience could have prepared him for this; words seem a little ambitious right at this second.

"I'm not a fucking criminal," Patrick protests, background noise over Pete's whirring thoughts, "I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I just, fucking...don't always understand."

"Yeah," Pete nods at nothing in particular, "you've got wings. How...how long have you had them, exactly?"

Patrick shrugs, and the wings droop a little, folding in on themselves. "I was born with them."

"Right, okay," Pete says, nodding again like the dog in the adverts, "so, you're, like, an angel," he finishes, the word lingering on his tongue.

Flushing slightly, Patrick purses his lips. "If you wanna call it that, then yeah."

Pete breathes a laugh, a weak, hysterical thing that dies as soon as it hits the air, and says, slowly this time, "You're an angel. From...from heaven?"

The kid, the freaking angel kid, shakes his head and sighs. "I don't know it like that. That's your word for it. I just...it's just home, to me."

Pete'll think about the religious connotations of this a lot more when he lies awake that night, but right now, he's just gotta fire off all the questions in his head and clear the smoke. "So, like, what are you doing down here?"

A frown crosses Patrick's face at that, and his eye line returns to somewhere around Pete's feet. "I fell. I was there and then I fell and when I woke up I was here, I don't know shit about it."

"You fell? Like...like Satan?" Pete laughs shrilly, "you were kicked out of heaven by God and his glorious servants?"

Patrick simply scowls. "I know I'm difficult, but I'm not the fucking embodiment of evil, you dick. I wasn't kicked out, fucker, I fucking _escaped._ "

Again, Pete will spend hours agonising over that little fact at a later date, but at the present moment, he wants to make the most of what he assumes is a dream, perhaps the result of some sort of narcotic. He'll have to ask Dr. McKee to alter his prescription.

He stares at Patrick a little more, seeing the pink indents in his skin where the belts were fastened, the glowing pale of his chest and his arms, where the band of gold still sits. It all begins to fall into place. "So, that's your..." he reaches out to towards it, but Patrick yanks his arm away, shielding the bracelet.

"Don't fucking touch it," he spits, a wing reaching round to block it from view.

Apologising quickly, Pete places his arms behind his back. "But it's your halo, right?"

"Yes. It's like, part of me. And it hurts if you touch it, so don't."

Pete suddenly feels a rush of guilt; he'd physically wrestled the thing off the kid's arm, he'd left his fingerprints all over something so precious to Patrick. Maybe that's why the boy's still eyeing him warily, his shoulders hunched and his breathing still shallow as anything.

"You can't tell anyone," he says, face pleading, "or they'll catch me, and I can't go back, I can't." He wipes at tears Pete failed to notice, and sits down on the bed, looking utterly miserable.

"Who's after you?" Pete asks gently, sitting down beside Patrick, hyper-aware of the big white wing hovering behind him, not quite touching him.

It turns out that Patrick can't answer as many of Pete's questions as either of them would like; he says he thought it was the police who were chasing him, because that's who all the homeless people he met were afraid of, but it sounds like they're from the same world as Patrick, and they want to take him back to wherever he came from. Pete watches Patrick's crumbling face as he tries to say why he can't go back; they hurt him. He says they kept doing it over and over and he couldn't get them to stop, so he figured out an escape. Pete has no idea how much he believes, but he can't deny the emotion in Patrick's words, the fear. And, of course, the damn _wings_ sticking out his back. Pete'll pretty much believe anything by this point.

It all makes a little more sense, at least – or much less sense, Pete doesn't really know. From Patrick's garbled explanations, he's gleaned that a) he's an _angel._ b) he escaped from whatever world he came from and ended up on earth, somehow, and c) he needs to be protected from whoever hurt him. Pete's rather surprised at how up to that task he feels.

When Patrick looks like he actually might pass out if he keeps talking, they sit in silence, both staring at the floor. Pete has no idea what's going through Patrick's mind, but his own brain is currently reassembling its perception of reality. It's surprisingly easy; he just slots a sliver of the supernatural into the picture, and he's done. His mum always believed in this stuff anyway – it's probably in his genes.

Inevitably, his eyes are drawn back to the enormous feathery limbs emerging from Patrick's back. They've folded themselves in a little, curving over his back where he's hunched over. He's all pale skin and even paler feathers; he's beautiful, really.

But he's reaching down for the belts again; distinct indents run across his feathers where they've dug into him, and there's  reddened sores sitting starkly on the skin where they were wrapped. Pete catches the boy's arm to stop him.

"They don't fit under clothes if I don't do this," Patrick protests, but he doesn't struggle against Pete.

"It's okay, you don't have to, y'know, hide them," he says gently, hand still placed on Patrick's arm, "that looks like it hurts, anyway." He gestures to the raw bands around the boy's chest. Patrick just shrugs – then stares at Pete in earnest.

"Wait – aren't you kicking me out?" he asks, hand still reaching towards the nearest belt.

Pete frowns. "Of course not, I mean – okay, this is fucking _weird,_ and I'm probably going to freak out about it later on, but y'know, it's better than a lot of my guesses, and y'know, you're – you're...an _angel,_ for crying out loud."

Patrick smiles slightly for the first time since Pete woke him up, and the tip of his wing brushes Pete's shoulder. It's thanks enough, and Pete leans into it.

"Can I?" he asks, raising a hand and wriggling his fingers. Patrick looks unsure, then nods minutely, spreading his wings a little more.

Pete strokes a finger lightly across the top edge of the nearest wing, and his face stretches into a smile when he feels how devastatingly soft the feathers are. It hardly feels as if he's touching anything at all, the fluff is so fine, like silk slipping through his fingers. He feels the way the feathers shift with each of Patrick's movements, interlocking perfectly with one another. "They're beautiful," Pete says absently, and the boy's wings ripple as he smiles, maybe wider than Pete's ever seen him.

He keeps stroking until Patrick looks uncomfortable, and maybe a little cold, too; he's wrapped his arms around himself, the hairs on his skin standing on end.

"Oh, clothes," Pete says stupidly, realising why Patrick had been such a bitch at the store. "You can't wear t-shirts."

"Nope. Too tight," he shrugs, and Pete has an idea.

He leaves Patrick bewildered on the bed as he hops up and flies out the room, only allowing himself five seconds of breakdown in the kitchen before he's racing back to Patrick, armed with scissors and an old t-shirt.

Sitting back down heavily, he sets the shirt in his lap, deciding how best to butcher it. The way Patrick flinches when Pete opens the scissors breaks Pete's heart a little bit.

He can feel Patrick's gaze on him as he cuts a long slit up the back of the fabric, wider than the widest point of Patrick's wings. Patrick lets him feed each one of them through the slit, and after wrestling the shirt over Patrick's head, it fits pretty well, the fabric not straining too much against his wing bones, and his torso mostly covered, even if it's a little short on him. Pete's admiring his handiwork, smoothing his hands over the boy's hips, when he catches Patrick staring.

"You're – you're seriously gonna let me stay?" Patrick asks again, eyes searching Pete's face. He smiles again, real and gorgeous, when Pete nods.

"I won't let them hurt you," Pete says, as if he has any experience of looking after other people, let alone supernatural beings. It seems like the right thing to say, though, because Patrick wraps his arms around Pete's chest and squeezes, his wings enveloping Pete in the best and weirdest hug he's ever had. He can feel feathers brushing the back of his neck and curling around his sides, and smiles into Patrick's shoulder.

When they finally pull back, their noses touch, and Pete kisses Patrick's lips like it's the easiest thing in the world. It's stupid and he'll probably regret it later, but he does it again anyway, enjoying the feel of Patrick's hands on his chest and Patrick's hair under his fingertips.

"You didn't ask," the boy says indignantly as they break apart, but he's smiling idiotically and his hands linger before they fold in his lap. Laughing, Pete lets himself stare again, lets himself wonder at Patrick and every mystery he's brought with him. He'll save the over-thinking for later.

He spends most of the afternoon in a dream world, cutting up more shirts for Patrick, asking him random questions about what he does and doesn't know about Earth. It also occurs to him that the primary function of wings is to _fly,_ and apparently Patrick can't, not well, anyway. They didn't really let him, back home, and Pete hates them for it, whoever _they_ are. He makes a mental note to take Patrick out somewhere he can fly as high as he likes.

They eat copious portions of pasta that evening, just like normal, Pete shows Patrick a new TV show he thought he might like, just like normal, Patrick asks bizarre questions about the world, just like normal. The only things that aren't normal are sprouting out of Patrick's back. Pete doesn't ask who Andy is, he doesn't ask how Patrick got here, or what, specifically, they did to him back home; they can wait for another day. For now, he just stares, completely bewildered but at the same time relieved that Patrick didn't reveal a set of slimy suckers meant for stealing Pete's skin.

When he's lying awake that night, wondering how he'll cope with work knowing there's an _angel_ in his house, it's not as difficult to get his head around as he might have thought, not when he's seen it right in front of his face. It's laughable, but not unbelievable. Not when the boy fell asleep curled up against Pete's side on the couch, his wings tucked around him and his face a picture of serenity; it actually seemed quite a logical outcome.

He grins into his pillow for a few moments, before rolling over and hoping this will all still seem so simple in the morning.  


	12. If God Is Real, He Probably Doesn't Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have my sincerest apologies for the lateness of this; I've got exams coming up that will apparently make or break my whole life so I've been frantically eating knowledge and a whole lot of yoghurt raisins (if you haven't tried yoghurt raisins, oh god do it). I WILL FINISH THIS STORY IF IT KILLS ME and god knows we've got rather a long way to go (it won't be 230,000 words, I say to myself whilst rocking back and forth, it won't be like the other one, I promise). 
> 
> Just as a heads up, the Hodge conjecture is one of the Millenium Prize Problems - seven (now six) unsolved maths problems - and requires proof of William Hodge's theory that if X is a projective manifold (shape...kind of) then a topological cycle (boundaryless shape) C on X is homologous to (the same as) a rational combination of algebraic cycles (weird equations) if C has rotation number zero. This has no relevance to anything bar one sentence of the chapter, but hey, maths is interesting.

Patrick doesn't quite know what happened to Pete overnight, but it must've been pretty fucking horrible, or he wouldn't have that expression etched into his face. Patrick wonders if he's going to shout, like yesterday morning, when he sits heavily in the chair opposite Patrick, but he doesn't say anything at all, just stares into his empty breakfast bowl and avoids Patrick's eyes. It's almost worse than shouting.

Patrick's wearing one of Pete's shirts, with the hole cut in the back, and after the job he had wrestling it over his wings this morning, he's concluded that it's definitely a two person task. It's strange, walking around without the belts digging into him – they fucking _hurt,_ too – and it's nice, not having to hide them. Pete said they were beautiful.

Having got up especially early to see Pete before he goes to work, Patrick's not feeling as grotty as he'd expected. They always made him get up early back home, anyway, so it's not too much of a change, and he's in a good mood, remembering Pete's smiles and how he stroked Patrick's wings and it felt _so good_ and it took everything Patrick had not to purr his lungs out. That's what he'll show Pete next.

He reconsiders this plan at the breakfast table. Pete looks surprised, when he walks in in his grey suit and sees Patrick munching Shreddies in the kitchen. He's realised that if he angles his wing just right, the box sits in his feathers quite nicely, and he can drink his glass of orange juice at the same time. Pete likes orange juice; he always says he doesn't, but whenever Patrick has any, Pete'll always end up drinking half of it.

"You're up," the man grunts as he rounds the kitchen table. He's got his worried face on again, and it makes Patrick's heart sink a little bit. It means he's not looking after Pete properly.

It's not a question, more of a begrudging admittance, so Patrick keeps quiet, each crunch of the Shreddies a cacophony in his ears. He waits for Pete to say something, or do something, or at least pour some fucking cereal into that fucking empty bowl, but the man just sits there, occasionally glancing at Patrick when he thinks he's not looking.

Patrick endures this for approximately two and a half minutes before he sighs, "So what's your fucking problem, then?" There's got to be one, otherwise Pete wouldn't be looking like he's trying to solve the Hodge conjecture.

The man looks up, blinks at Patrick for a few moments, then barks an artificial laugh that hurts Patrick's ears. " _My_ problem? Patrick, you're an _angel,_ " he says, waving a hand as if that fact changes anything, "and not even, like, a proper angel, like, an _animal."_

"What the fuck does that mean, a _proper_ angel?" Patrick's not sure what the rest of it means either, but he doesn't focus on that.

"Well, like, y'know, a force of eternal good, a heavenly creature bathed in glory, sent to, like, heal others and guide those in need," Pete rambles, "and not, like, swear at everyone all the time."

Patrick's not sure what the hell Pete's on about, but he's pretty certain it's not very nice. "Hey, I don't fucking – I don't swear at people all the time," he grumbles,  "and I'm not from heaven," he adds, hoping this time, he'll get that fact through Pete's skull. Just because home is mostly white and always clean, doesn't mean it's anything like what Pete's picturing.

Pete just waves this away, though. "Whatever. I just – I don't know how much of this I believe, Patrick, it's all just so – weird. I'm not okay with this," he says, shaking his head like it's Patrick's fucking _fault_ that he is what he is.

"You said it was fine yesterday," he retorts, remembering the hug and the two whole kisses Pete gave him. _You said I was beautiful._

"Yeah, well," Pete says with disdain, "that was yesterday, wasn't it. I wasn't thinking straight yesterday." His eyes flick briefly to Patrick's wings, then away, like he's seen something dirty, something wrong. Patrick folds them behind him as far as the chair will allow.

"You piece of shit," Patrick growls, and Pete looks up in alarm, "you can't just say stuff like that, you can't just forget everything that fucking inconveniences you, you can't -"

"I'm going to work," Pete announces shortly, rising from his seat and putting his unused bowl in the dishwasher. Then he marches past Patrick, grabs his phone and bag off the counter, and flounces out of the house, slamming the front door behind him.

Patrick shouts a few different swear words after him, and slopes off back to bed.

-

 _Not a proper angel,_ Patrick seethes, once he's mustered the motivation to drag himself up and back into the lounge. _What more does Pete want? None of the other angels back home have wings,_ Patrick thinks. He prides himself on that.

That's what this should have been, a proud moment, finally, a reason for Patrick to show off, to feel like he's worthy of Pete's company. His wings have been a fucking job to hide, especially when he first got here, but he'd do it again, no question. Half the time, they were the only things keeping him warm at night. He wishes he could step back in time to the day before, when Pete was stroking them and looking at them like they were special, before Pete's fucking _mind_ got in the way of everything.

Pete and his stupid worries and his stupid kisses that keep Patrick teetering on the edge of something he can't even see; Pete and his stupid fucking avoidance of anything that might change his precious little life, when he needs change more than anything.

Patrick just can't see how Pete can be so sad when there's all _this –_ this knowledge, this beauty, this world – all around him. He's got so little life left and yet he's choosing to spend it miserable and lonely. Patrick's been alone in this house nearly every day since he came here, and he's never been bored; he spends the afternoons muddling his way through the books on the shelf, Pete's laptop close by to look up the words he doesn't know. It took a long evening of Pete's explanations for Patrick to understand that the things that happen in books aren't always real – hardly ever are, actually. People make them up, in their minds, _like you with your music,_ Pete had said.

 _It shouldn't be like this,_ Patrick thinks as he watches the door, waiting for Pete to walk in at half past five. It took every bit of bravery Patrick had, every bit of trust, for him to show Pete what he is. It should have brought them closer. Now Patrick just feels quietly ashamed.

"...but Pete, sweetie, why won't you just ring me, once in a while, just so I know you're okay?" A voice rings down the hall, and Patrick freezes, hearing the front door open and several feet patter through it.

"I _do_ call you, mum, I just-"

"Yes, once every few years, to check if I'm still alive," the voice snaps, and it takes Patrick far too long to realise he needs to run.

He scrambles off the sofa, sending Sam skittering away, and gets about halfway to the stairs before he hears a quiet "Oh my God," from behind him, and knows he's blown it.

"Oh my _God."_ This time it's Pete talking, and he sounds severely pissed off. He _looks_ severely pissed off, too, when Patrick finally turns to face him. They both look at the other person in the room, whose eyes are fixed upon Patrick.

Patrick doesn't recognise them – _her?_ He can't really tell, although the extra flesh on their chest would suggest they're a she – but he heard Pete call her _mum,_ which means she was the one who gave birth to Pete, probably. She's got dark skin, darker than Pete's, but her face is similar, pronounced cheekbones and thick eyebrows, which are currently raised in surprise as she stares at Patrick.

"Pete," she says quietly, "there's an angel in your house."

"I know," Pete sighs, like she's pointed out the dirty dishes on the kitchen table, then purses his lips at Patrick, who has no clue what the hell he's supposed to do now.

"I'm, uh," he stutters, trying to think up some excuse as to why there's feathers sprouting from his back, "these aren't – real. They're, like, fake," he says, thinking he's fooled her before he feels his wings twitch noticeably, and sees her eye line follow them. Then, she smiles.

"My goodness, I didn't think – well, I _did_ think, I knew – you'd come, how did you...? Magnificent," she breathes, stepping closer to him, her hands clasped tight in front of her. "Pete...?" She looks to her son, who finally helps Patrick out.

"Uh, yeah. So, mum, this is Patrick, you know the tra- the homeless boy I was telling you about? Turns out he's an angel, he told me yesterday," Pete says heavily, then glances to Patrick, his gaze softening a little. "She's okay, kid, she won't tell anyone."

All he can do is hope Pete's right as he stares at the advancing woman, who stops a few feet in front of him, looking him up and down in a way that makes Patrick fold in on himself a little. People always do this. But she smiles fondly, and people don't always do that. "No wonder Pete said you were a little strange," she says, and it doesn't sound like she's mocking him. "Are you here for Pete?"

"Mum," Pete says quickly, "don't. He's in hiding, there's people after him. It's not that."

"But sweetheart, it must be a _sign,_ surely-"

"No, mum," Pete says, louder, shaking his head, "it's not that."

Patrick opens his mouth to ask what's going on, but closes it when he sees the looks exchanged between mother and son. Even if he thinks he already knows, it's not his place. He wonders what it must be like to have a mother.

"You're beautiful," she says to him, looking him right in the eyes, so Patrick knows she means it. "Where do you come from? Did God send you?"

"I don't know who God is." At least, not personally. "I don't think anyone does," he adds, before he looks stupid.

From across the room, Pete scoffs, and Patrick's beginning to get a little sick of his bullshit attitude, especially in front of the woman who birthed him. "Well, he knows a wise, bearded man, so, like," Pete says, with a huff of air that he thinks proves his point.

"That's Andy, he's not – he's clever, but he's not fucking omniscient!" Patrick spits. He's sure as fuck not omnibenevolent, either. All that God-googling has really come in handy.

"Yeah, okay," Pete says in the voice that means he doesn't believe Patrick. "You know, it'd be really great if you could just stop lying to me for once in your-"

"Peter!" Pete's mum snaps suddenly, "there is an _angel_ present. Show some bloody respect."

Patrick decides he likes her a lot.

He can't tell her everything she wants to know, but she doesn't seem to mind; she nods and smiles as they sit around the coffee table, telling him it's okay that he doesn't know if he's from heaven or not, saying it's not the place of a human to ask what happens after death. He lets her touch his wings, beaming with pride as she tells him how lovely they are, and trying not to wonder whether anyone will ever say that about him _before_ they see the feathers. She doesn't protest when Patrick explains why she can't touch his halo – he's still a bit jittery from yesterday, after Pete took it from him. Pete's apologised, so it's alright, but they didn't, back home, when they took it. They didn't give it back until he started coughing up blood. He doesn't tell her about that, though; he needs to forget.

She thanks him a lot, thanks him for being here, for letting her see him, for renewing her faith or something like that, and he nods and smiles as if any of this was his choice. Well, the falling was his choice, but that's where the praise should end. She asks about that, too, but all he really remembers is that it _hurt,_ that he could barely walk, barely breathe. Specifics are a blur.

 

Eventually, Pete obviously gets bored being ignored, and asks Patrick very pointedly if he'd like to make some dinner for the two of them, since Dale – that's Pete's mum's real name – won't be staying much longer. A withering look comes with it, and Patrick knows when he's not wanted.

He decides on pasta, because that's pretty much the only fucking thing he can cook without endangering London, and tries to think of some way he could make it special, to show Pete that he deserves a little more credit sometimes. He _hates_ Pete for being like this, but at the same time, he'd forgive him in a heartbeat. Apparently special people can double as fucking shit-head asshole people.

As he cooks, he catches snippets of their conversation, filtering through underneath the clanging of pots and pans. Something about hospital on Thursday, something about keeping positive. He only really starts to listen when he hears his name mentioned.

"...he's an _angel,_ mum, I mean, what the hell do I even do with that?" Pete's got that same tone of frustration in his voice as he did this morning. "Like, am I in a movie, or something? This is ridiculous."

"But Peter, I've never seen you treat anyone with such contempt before, what's the matter with you?" Dale exclaims, and she says something else, but it's too quiet for Patrick to hear over the bubbling of the water.

He's pretty sure he damages an eardrum with the straining he puts himself through to hear their murmurs. Dale asks some kind of question, which Pete takes a while to respond to. He must nod, or shake his head, or something, because Dale says, "Well, why don't you do something about it?"

Pete does one of his long sighs. "Mum, he's an _angel._ It'd be, like, a sin, or something, I don't know."

Patrick doesn't know what sin Pete's referring to, but it doesn't seem to bother his mother. "Don't be silly," she snaps, "maybe that's why he was sent-"

"He wasn't _sent,_ mum-"

"-to make you happier. And you _are_ happier, Pete. You don't see it, but I do. Just think about it, alright?"

Patrick doesn't know how much Pete thinks about it, but whatever _it_ is is certainly occupying Patrick's mind for most of the evening. He could ask Pete, but that would show he'd been eavesdropping, and he's been punished for that enough times to know that it's not a nice thing to do.

 

Pete must have been doing _some_ kind of thinking, however, because once his mum's gone home, he looks rather sheepish as he slopes into the kitchen.

"What're we eating?" he asks lightly, as Patrick sets the dishes on the table.

"Pasta on toast," he answers, with no small amount of pride. He didn't even burn any of it.

Pete's eyebrows lift as he stares at the plates, "Pasta on...okay," he says, shaking his head a little. "Thank you."

Ten minutes later, however, there's two clean plates sitting in front of them, and Pete doesn't seem to have prepared any kind of derogatory remark for Patrick; he even helps with the dishes.

When the kitchen table is as spotless as everything else in Pete's house, the man clears his throat awkwardly, approaching Patrick from the other side of the room.

"Uh," he mumbles, leaning against the breakfast bar, "I, uh. I just wanted to say, like, sorry, for, y'know, being such an arse about all this. I'm just, like, bad at handling stuff, I guess," he laughs, breathy and humourless.

Patrick nods, watching Pete's hands fidgeting with his shirt cuffs and remembering the way he clawed at Pete's arms yesterday, the way he made Pete scared and hurt. "It's alright," he says as gently as he can, "I'm sorry for attacking you, it's just, it makes me panic if people-"

"If people touch it, yeah, I know," Pete nods, and it's not mocking, just understanding. "I shouldn't have taken it, I was just, like, being stupid," he finishes.

Patrick shrugs. "You didn't know." He's had worse, anyway.

There's a few seconds of silence, and Patrick doesn't know if the conversation's over now, and he should move away, or if he should say something more. By the looks of it, neither does Pete.

Then, at the last second, Pete grabs his jacket off the kitchen counter and starts to search through the pockets. "I, uh, got you some, uh, stuff," he says, a white object in his hand as he puts the jacket down, "It's just, like ointment. For, like, where the belts rubbed."

Patrick takes the small plastic tube and turns it over in his fingers. The sores have mostly healed by now, but Pete doesn't have to know this, and even Patrick can see that this is a peace offering. "Thank you."

Pete wrings his hands together as he smiles, shifting from one foot to the other where he stands. "I, uh, don't know what you want to, like, do, tonight, I mean, I can go out if you, like, don't want me around, but, like, I don't _have_ to," he tails off, mouth flapping as if he has no idea what he's talking about. Patrick's not sure he knows either.

"Stay," he says quickly, because that's the one thing he's sure he wants. "Could we just do what we did last night?" He desperately needs to know that yesterday wasn't a dream.

"What, cuddle on the couch?" Pete scoffs, then catches Patrick's nod. "Okay," he says, and there's warmth in his eyes that wasn't there before. "Just, uh, let me shower, and I'll be right with you. Pick a movie, or something," he gabbles, before giving Patrick a rush of a smile and turning away.

Patrick doesn't try to hide the stupid grin on his face; he's done enough hiding recently.

Perhaps that's why, when they're pyjama-clad and bundled on the couch later that evening, Patrick starts to purr in Pete's company for the first time. The man's been stroking the curve of Patrick's folded wing for the majority of Raiders of the Lost Ark (he's not entirely sure what's going on, but Pete answers most of his questions and at least he knows it's not real so he doesn't cry anymore when people die), and the vibrations have been building in Patrick's throat for a while.

He rests his head firmly against Pete's shoulder and shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath and letting his throat turn it into a low, rippling sound that reaches the very tips of his toes. Pete stiffens beside him, and his shoulder shrugs Patrick's head away.

"Whoa – was that you?" Pete asks, frowning, as Patrick looks up at him, now silent and wary. Pete doesn't look angry, but Patrick's learnt the hard way that Pete's face is no clear indicator of how he actually feels. He nods slightly.

"You – you can purr?" The man says, his eyebrows raised to dizzying heights.

"Only when I'm relaxed," Patrick replies quietly, any notion of relaxation quickly dissipating. He needn't have worried, though, because there's a smile spreading across Pete's face faster than melting butter.

"Of course you can purr," he laughs, ruffling Patrick's hair with the hand he isn't using to pinch the bridge of his nose. When Patrick's eyes fall shut, his hand stills. "You like that?"

More than a little sheepishly, Patrick nods, painfully aware of the heat in his face and the uncertainty as to whether Pete will mock him or shun him or hate him for this.

In fact, Pete does none of the above; he simply settles his hand behind one of Patrick's ears and begins to scratch with the soft pads of his fingers, grinning as Patrick leans into the touch. It feels _so lovely._ Hugging and hand-holding are all well and good, but _this._ This feels like being hugged on the inside, like being coated in warm honey, like every muscle in his body is being soothed with each stroke of Pete's fingers.

He grabs for Pete's arm and nuzzles into it, purring so loud he can't hear himself think, stretching his one free wing out briefly before slumping into the sofa in a haze of sleepy smiles. He can feel Pete giggling next to him, his other hand carding through the hairs at the base of Patrick's neck. When Patrick finally opens his eyes, Pete's face is lit with something like wonder, and Patrick's lungs feel suddenly too big for his chest.

He tries to pull himself together a little bit, sitting up and away from Pete, but before he knows it, Pete's pulling him back, fingers tangling in his hair once again.

"That's _so_ _cute,_ " Pete says, almost aggressively, placing an arm around Patrick and stroking down the length of his wings, "you're like a cat. An angel cat. Oh, that's why Sam likes you so much!" the man exclaims, pointing between Patrick and the cat rather excitedly.

"Yeah, and also because I give him the nice food, he doesn't fucking _like_ the dry stuff, it gets stuck in his teeth," Patrick tuts, rolling his eyes.

Pete stares at him for a few seconds, before patting him lightly on the head. "You get weirder every day," he muses, brushing hair out of Patrick's eyes.

Patrick just snorts and burrows his face back into Pete's shoulder.

Pete's fingers don't leave Patrick's hair until the end of the film. And Patrick might be mostly asleep, but he still feels the kiss Pete places on his forehead as the credits roll.

Whatever Pete's thinking, Patrick hopes, more than anything, that it lasts. _This_ is how it should be. 


	13. By The Way, Fireworks Are Loud (Maybe Even Louder Than You)

Pete wakes up to Patrick's face three inches away from his own.

There's no strangers in his bed, and no ache in his skull, either; he hasn't been out since his house-mate turned out to be an ethereal being. Somehow he always ends up watching a movie with an abundance of feathers in his lap. It's doing his sleeping pattern a world of good, and perhaps that's why he comes so quickly to his senses once Patrick says his name.

"Pete." It's urgent and whispered, two big blue eyes blinking at him in the half-light of the morning and pale hands hovering around him, not quite close enough to touch.

"Patrick?" Pete mumbles, crumpling his face and pushing himself up onto his elbows. "Are you alright?"

"Uh," Patrick falters, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, "it wasn't me," he says, too quickly.

Sleepiness falls away as Pete frowns at the kid, and he sits up properly, painfully aware of his half-nakedness. "What have you done?" Pete warns, narrowing his eyes.

Patrick huffs, but the anxiety doesn't fade from his face. "It's not my fault, I swear," he insists, but it's unsure and pretty much confirms that whatever it is, it's _definitely_ Patrick's fault. "It's just, fucking...everywhere."

"What's everywhere?" Pete asks, yawning the last word at the boy.

Patrick steps back a little, gesturing to the window. "The...stuff," he says, his wings curling to cover his arms. Pete still hasn't got used to it; can't take his eyes off the way they seem to glow in the morning light, the blue-pale of Patrick's bare chest and the swell of his stomach over the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. Not that Pete's looking, of course.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes and groaning, "What stuff?"

The boy makes a noise of frustration, his feathers puffing up like a ruffled pigeon. "I don't fucking _know,_ it's everywhere and it might be _dangerous_ and I swear I didn't do anything, I just woke up and it was there and, and," he babbles, voice rising a few semitones with each word. Then his face falls, and he drops his gaze to the floor. "And I think Sam's out there."

He looks so devastated that Pete nearly offers him a hug; then he remembers the crisis at hand and stands up, eyes trained on the curtain. "Out there? It's outside?"

Patrick nods, "Yeah, everywhere. It's not my fault!" he says again, following behind Pete as he stalks towards the window. Whatever it is, it better not be anywhere near his car.

When he throws open the curtains, however, ready to face the apocalypse, he looks down at his front garden and begins to laugh. It is, indeed, _everywhere_ , and it is not, in fact, Patrick's fault at all.

"What is it? Why are you laughing?" the boy asks indignantly, jabbing an elbow into Pete's ribs as they both stare out of the window. The confusion on Patrick's face makes Pete's heart swell a little bit.

"Patrick..." he giggles, "it's snow."

The boy's mouth opens, then closes, then wilts into his well-worn frown. "Snow," he repeats slowly, and Pete's grin widens. "Why is it here," he mutters, glaring like it's sitting in his place on the couch. There's only a light dusting of white over Pete's lawn, plus a little either side of the road, and it's November, so it'll all be gone in a few hours, but Patrick's looking at it like it might attack them at any moment.

"It's like rain, but, y'know, colder," Pete shrugs, watching Patrick's eyes as he peers out of the window, close enough to the glass that his nose touches it. "It won't hurt you."

The kid narrows his eyes, then turns them upon Pete, and for a second, Pete feels a little like he's being examined. Then, Patrick announces, "I'm going outside."

Before Pete knows it, the boy's turned on his heel and disappeared from the room, leaving Pete yelling at him to put something warm on.

Pete smiles after Patrick until his senses come back to him.

-

Patrick looks adorable in a bobble hat, Pete decides as he watches the boy prance down the street ahead of him later that morning. They tried a half-assed snowball fight, but surprisingly, Patrick was far more interested in studying the snow than hurling it at Pete's head.

It's November the 5th, and Pete's decided to take Patrick to see a little more of the city, seeing as he only really knows London by its alleyways. Plus, he's never seen fireworks before, and Pete really _really_ wants to see his reaction to the bonfire night festivities.

Explaining the celebration proves difficult; as much as Pete tries to make the gunpowder plot seem light-hearted, he can't really get around the boy's questions about what happened to Guy Fawkes, and ends up having to explain the mechanics of being hung, drawn and quartered to a green-faced Patrick. They end up sitting in silence on the tube after Pete finishes with the line _so now we celebrate by burning models of him on a fire every year._ Perhaps bonfire night wasn't the best idea after all.

Neither, perhaps, was Pete's decision to take Patrick to the Natural History Museum.

Pete's just finished quizzing Patrick and his flawless knowledge of London Tube stations (the boy knows the map as fluently as he knows his alphabet) when they come to the gates of the museum, and Patrick's eyes widen at the sight, cheeks pink from the cold and gloved hands stuffed into the pockets of the coat Pete bought him. He had to put the belts back on this morning, but this time, Pete made sure to cushion them with bandages so they don't hurt Patrick as much; even so, he hates that Patrick has to so painfully hide such a beautiful part of himself.

As it turns out, however, Patrick's more than just beautiful in part. The look on his face as he gazes up at the diplodocus in the vast entrance hall is one Pete wishes he'd got on camera.

"What is it," he breathes, ignoring the people buzzing around them and grabbing Pete by the wrist.

Pete smiles the bewildered grin he reserves for Patrick's moments of discovery, and begins to lead him towards the little information plaque at the front of the platform. "It's a dinosaur – a diplodocus, actually – they were alive a very long time ago, before humans were around."

"Whoa," Patrick says, "they lived here?"

"Well, yeah," Pete nods, "archaeologists found their skeletons and put them back together, and put some of them in this place so we can see them." He points to the writing, which is infinitely better at explaining things than Pete.

Pete watches Patrick's face as he studies the information, pausing only to answer the boy's questioning of words he doesn't understand. To be perfectly honest, even Pete has no idea what _sauropod_ means.

"One hundred and fifty _million years?!"_ Patrick shrieks all of a sudden, turning to Pete as if he should have an explanation for this utter madness, "that's...that's...I can't, fucking..." he trails off, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Yeah," Pete nods, beginning to appreciate how inconceivable all this must be for Patrick. "And if you go back even further, the countries weren't even in the same place, they all used to be this huge super-continent, and before that, there wasn't any earth at all, just a huge fiery lava ball floating in space. It's pretty crazy," he finishes, gazing up at the dinosaur skeleton.

It takes him a few seconds to realise Patrick's staring at him. "What," the kid says flatly, lips parted in disbelief. He looks mildly terrified.

"But, you know," Pete says breezily, waving a hand, "we'll get to that later."

 

The look of awe never quite leaves Patrick's face as they wander through the museum corridors; Pete doesn't think he's ever spent so long in one section, as Patrick insists on reading every single piece of information he can find, occasionally tugging on Pete's arm and half-yelling interesting facts at him. The boy wants to know _everything_ , yammering far-flung questions at Pete that the man has no hope of knowing the answers to. Patrick's a veritable information _sponge,_ instantly memorising the order of the different eras and which dinosaurs lived when.

It's hilarious to see Patrick jump out of his skin when the animatronic T-Rex leans towards them both; what's not so funny is the ferocious snarl the boy lets out – terrifyingly real next to the robot's computer-generated roar – and the shocked glances shot at them by strangers. But there's really no denying the warmth in Pete's heart when he realises Patrick's first move was to step between Pete and the monster.

He's beginning to regret not taking sandwiches when Patrick drags him into the Mammal Gallery, showing no signs of letting up. The kid points excitedly at the birds in the glass cases, no longer prehistoric skeletons but fully-feathered and vibrant. Patrick won't talk about his wings in public, but Pete can see him counting flight feathers and comparing wingspans. He marvels at the sloth and the koalas, the lions and the deer, standing proudly behind ropes, just out of reach.

"I've seen these!" Patrick yelps when they stop before the foxes. They stand in a display cabinet, mock scenery around them, and Pete has to pry Patrick's hands away from the glass to stop him leaving smudges over it. "They're shy, but they like you if you give them food," the boy explains, and he looks so pleased with himself that Pete decides not to scold him for encouraging London's pests. They're better than rats, at least.

It's not weird until Patrick begins to talk softly to the fox at the front. "Hello," he says, "it's nice to meet you. I've met lots of your friends. You're doing very well, standing still for so long, it must be tiring."

Pete's about to question it, but Patrick's already turning to him with concern on his face.

"They get breaks, right?" he says, and Pete doesn't understand soon enough.

"What?"

The boy huffs. "Like, they get to rest sometimes, so they don't get achy, don't they," he says, nodding like the question's already answered.

"No, no," Pete says, laughing slightly, "they're not _alive,_ Patrick, it's, like, taxidermy, they're put in that position and, like..."

Pete cuts himself off at the expression on Patrick's face.

"They're _dead?!"_ Patrick shrieks, loud enough that the hushed conversation around them dies to empty silence. " _What the fuck?!"_

"Well, yeah," Pete says, keeping his voice down in the hope that Patrick might follow his lead. "I thought you-"

"Oh my – fucking – what the hell?!" the boy yells, eyes flicking to the animals surrounding them, steps reeling backwards. "That's – disgusting! What the fuck?!" he repeats, but this time there's a crack through his voice and a terrified horror on his face.

Pete opens his mouth to say something, to tell Patrick to shut _up_ because _everyone_ is staring at them, but the boy's already backing away, one hand covering his mouth and the other fisted in his hair, knocking his hat to the floor. Then he turns and runs, footsteps echoing off the shined wooden floor, distraught curses fading in his wake.

"Patrick," Pete tries, weakly, watching the kid weave a path through the scattered tourists and disappear round a corner. "Sorry," Pete sighs in the general direction of the staring audience they've collected and begins to jog after Patrick, sweeping his hat off the floor as he goes. He should have known; a Patrick-tantrum had been long overdue.

When he finally catches up to Patrick, after jogging the whole way out of the museum, the kid's sitting on the wall by the railings with his face buried in his jacket sleeves, openly sobbing. He's getting some concerned looks from passers by, but then, so is Pete as he darts around the clumps of people and out into the open air.

"Patrick," he repeats as he collapses onto the wall beside the boy, cold breaths sharp in his throat. "Man, you run fast," he laughs in an attempt to get the kid to look up. He doesn't.

"Why do you kill them?" Patrick asks, muffled through his hands and wracked with tears. "What've they done wrong?"

The devastation in Patrick's voice makes Pete's chest hurt; he begins to rethink his use of the word _tantrum._ This isn't some stroppy whining toddler, this is Patrick, a damn _angel,_ crying over the effects of human destruction. Placing a gentle hand on Patrick's shoulder, Pete decides to stop making fun of the boy and try out this thing called sympathy. "They didn't do anything wrong. They just-"

"So why do you kill them?!" Patrick snaps, finally looking at Pete with eyes steeped in tears.

"Uh...well, I don't, um..." Pete falters, suddenly feeling like he's representing all of humanity, "it's, it's for learning. I know it's horrible, but, y'know, they didn't die in vain. We can look at them and study them, they're there to be admired and respected, y'know?"

"But they're _dead,_ " Patrick cries, "where's the respect in that?"

Pete doesn't know how to respond to that, so he just tucks an arm tighter around Patrick's shoulders and lets the boy lean into him. He can feel the soft give of feathers underneath Patrick's jacket; he sees it now, the slightly unnatural curve of his shoulders and his back that Pete had previously attributed to the fabric of his baggy sweaters or his puppy fat. "I'm sorry," he says softly, "I should have warned you. I thought you'd know, I guess."

Patrick just shakes his head and rubs at his eyes, his breaths coming in stuttering gasps as the tears begin to slow.

"We can go do something else," Pete suggests when the blotches on the boy's cheeks have begun to fade. He's sitting up straighter now, gaze firmly on the ground and hands gripping tight to his knees.

"The skeletons were okay," Patrick sniffs, "just not the others."

"We could just go and look at those ones, if you want," Pete says gently, touching Patrick's forearm. "There's a section on how the earth was formed, that might be alright."

The kid thinks for a few seconds, scraping his hair out of his face with cold-flushed fingers, then nods his head. "Okay. Alright."

Pete breathes out, placing a well-earned Angel Tamer badge firmly on his chest and giving Patrick's arm a squeeze. He's not even really grossed out by the tear-and-snot smudges glistening on the kid's jacket sleeves; it's not tramp snot anymore, it's _angel_ snot. It probably has miraculous magic qualities. He'll give his mum a jar of it for Christmas.

He takes Patrick's hand without thinking, tangling their frozen fingers and hating how much like home it feels. He focusses on the snot; the stringy, gloopy snot that coats Patrick's top lip, that rattles in his nose, because clinging to Patrick's imperfections seems the only way for Pete to stay sane. If he looks too close, he'll see how the boy's fingers, despite constant mauling from his teeth, are flawless, unsullied with chapped skin or frayed cuticles. He'll see how Patrick's face is unblemished, poreless, how his lips remain full and ripe and pink where Pete's own are shrivelled and flaking in the cold.

When Patrick squeezes Pete's hand and shows his glowing smile, Pete wishes he could forget everything he's ever learned about God and Heaven and Sin. He wishes Patrick was normal, not flanked with feathers and connotations, with threats of fire and damnation. There's probably demons cackling at Pete's lust, at Pete's longing, with outstretched claws waiting for him to fall. A few weeks ago, Pete was a steadfast atheist; now there's an angel with cold hands and warm eyes sitting beside him, and it's as if all the skies are watching his every move. _Touch the Angel, and you will pay the price._

It's difficult to remain scared, though, watching Patrick's mouth drop open as he learns about the earth, the dumbstruck amazement in his eyes as he tries to conceive of the vastness of space and time. Pete finds comfort in the science, the geology and evolution, the absence of God. He holds Patrick's hand tighter, as if in defiance. _Atheist._

They eat lunch in increments, around ramblings of dinosaurs and tectonic plates, and Patrick's thoroughly mind-bending questions about what in this world is natural and what is not; in Pete's head, the divide between the natural and the man-made is deeply rooted, but Patrick doesn't understand barriers. He doesn't understand why people sometimes look pointedly at their joined hands, or why people with breasts are less likely to hold positions of power, or why Pete is more likely to be convicted of a crime than his paler peers. He is a blank slate, and he's _wonderful._

Pete doesn't know whether to keep him blank or to scrawl all over him, with highlighters and glitter pens and handfuls of powder paint.

Perhaps it's the other way round, though. Patrick sees shape like Picasso and colour like Matisse; his mind finds something other than the prospect of rain when he gazes at London's darkening sky, feels something other than the cold when the wind gnaws at their faces. Sees something other than illness when his eyes meet Pete's. Patrick's pouring colour into Pete without bothering to stay in the lines, and soon there'll be rainbows smudged all along the South Bank and no room for denial. The heavens laugh at him through clouds of cracked smiles as he tries not to lean too close, stare too long.

Abstinence has never been Pete's strong point.

They're crammed among thousands, all staring up at the sky, and Pete's pretty sure his arm found its way around Patrick's waist somewhere between the mulled wine and the near-combustion incident; they're now as far away from the bonfire as Pete could drag the kid.

Patrick keeps turning his head to talk to Pete like he _knows_ it puts their lips at an obscene distance, babbling about God knows what, while Pete's wondering what exactly God _does_ know, and whether it's already enough to send him to the fiery pits of hell for all eternity.

His mum told him what she thinks. She thinks he's half in love with Patrick, she thinks that's why Patrick's here, to love Pete. It's absolute bull _shit,_ every word, but her wrath could rival that of almighty God any day, so maybe Pete's doing the right thing when he snaps his head forward and presses his lips to Patrick's, his nose touching Patrick's frozen cheek.

There's no lightning from above and the ground doesn't open up underneath Pete, and for a moment he thinks he's got away with it, he's kissed an angel with intent and God doesn't give two rats' asses. Then Patrick's expression turns thunderous.

Pete finds himself being shoved away, very nearly colliding with an elderly man, and feels a pang of shock when Patrick looks at him like he's just shot a cat. "Uh, was that not-"

"Stop fucking _doing_ that!" Patrick spits, pulling his hat down over his ears like he doesn't want an explanation.

Pete tries, anyway. "I'm sorry, I thought you _liked-"_

" _Like_ it?" the kid snarls, ignoring Pete's fingers on his jacket and staring steadfast at the boots of the woman in front of them, "of course I fucking _like_ it, where the fuck have you _been_ the last few weeks?!"

Pete goes to defend himself, to let go of Patrick and use his hands for surrender, before he processes what the boy just said, and his mouth shuts itself. He blinks as the dust settles and stares until Patrick casts him a sideways glare. "So...so – you do like it?"

Patrick lets out a groan loud enough to draw glances from those around them, and rubs a hand over his eyes. "Yes! _Yes,_ fuck, I like kissing you, I'd like to do it all the fucking time, I'd like to be your special person, what a _fucking_ revelation!" He looks like he's about to say more, but there's a redness in his face that can't just be a result of the cold and his jaw locks tight behind his words.

"Oh," Pete says, beginning to feel a little stupid. It's not that he hadn't noticed Patrick's little crush, he thought it was just that: a _little crush._ It's not that all the cuddling and the purring (oh _God,_ the purring. It's the strangest and most wonderful thing about Patrick. Well, one of the most wonderful things. Pete's started to realise there are quite a few) haven't taken their toll on their relationship, and yeah, they've got closer, close enough to kiss, sometimes, for Pete to kiss Patrick, and for Patrick to kiss back, so, so...ah. Maybe this is more than Pete imagined. "So why did you, like, push me?"

" _Because,"_ Patrick huffs, like it's obvious, "you always fucking _forget,_ and you go and kiss other people, and I fucking hate it and I don't _understand_ and if you won't kiss me all the time then I'd rather you just didn't fucking do it at all." Pete's surprised Patrick hasn't started a bonfire of his own from the heat of his glare. The boy crosses his arms as if that's the end. But, for once, Pete decides to listen to his mother, and actually go for something he wants.

"So...what if I did kiss you all the time? And, like, didn't kiss other people?" He wonders – if he'd ever pictured himself asking an angel out – if he'd imagined himself doing it quite this awkwardly. He stares at Patrick's face in profile, moving his hand to the crook of Patrick's elbow.

Finally, the boy looks at him. His eyes are narrowed as he asks, "Are you making fucking fun of me?"

"No, no," Pete says quickly, raising his voice to be heard over the excitable shouts from the loudspeaker. He's painfully aware that the fireworks will start in a matter of minutes and interrupt what feels like an important conversation. The voice starts to announce the countdown at the same moment Pete grabs Patrick's arm, forcing their gazes together.

"I won't forget," Pete breathes earnestly, leaning close to avoid shouting, desperately trying to hold Patrick's unforgiving stare. "I won't kiss anyone else, I don't want to." It's truer than Pete realises; how could anyone else match up to an _angel,_ for goodness' sake? But then again, the lips, eyes, the live-wire temperament would be just as enticing without the wings, the halo.

The countdown begins from ten, and Pete's running out of words as quick as the crowd runs out of numbers, he can't _say_ anything else, if Patrick won't take his word, he has nothing else to give.

"Don't forget," Patrick says, and not much can be heard over the yells of the crowd, but somehow his voice carries, and Pete nods, and then it's a decision, an agreement, a promise to lean in and touch their mouths together. It's gentle until Patrick's gloved hand clasps at Pete's neck, chaste until Pete's tongue braves the cold of the evening air for the warmth of Patrick's mouth. It's only the soft-scratch of Patrick's sideburns under his hands that keep Pete from raising his middle finger to the heavens; if he burns for this, so be it. This kiss, this cold and snotty kiss is worth the hell-fire.

Then the first firework goes off, and Patrick screams.

It's muffled by the crowd, but Pete hears it loud and clear as Patrick rips himself away from Pete's lips and jerks wildly, slamming his hands over his ears and searching for the source of the noise. Another sounds, this one hissing and crackling, and Patrick's knees buckle like the sky is falling in on him.

Pete grabs for him, planting both hands on his shoulders and stilling his thrashing, trying to meet his darting eyes, and ends up just hugging Patrick to his chest as tightly as he can, feeling him flinch as the next firework explodes above them with a _boom. "_ It's okay," Pete says into the glove covering Patrick's ear, "it won't hurt you, it's okay."

As Patrick begins to calm down, he turns his head and peeks out, one eye peering up at the sky, a haze of red-purple flecked with gold. His hands stay clamped over his ears, but by the time the last firework lights up the faces of the crowd, he's standing beside Pete with wide, wet eyes, his lips parted in awe and his body pressed close. Pete keeps his arm wrapped around Patrick's shoulders, finally unquestioning, finally accepting. Finally committed to something more than passing kisses.

It seems as if something in Patrick has melted as they travel home that night; there's warmth in his eyes when he tangles his hand with Pete's, happiness in the rush of air he lets out when he rests his head on Pete's shoulder. Pete wonders for the thousandth time what they did to him in heaven, why he seems so desperate for contact, why he latches onto kind words like a lifeline.

They start to kiss on the walk back from the tube station, after Patrick asks him, without swearing, if it would be okay. When Pete nods, Patrick smiles louder than the firework display, and they weave a stumbling path towards Pete's house, blissfully sober. It feels so vital to Pete that for once he's glad there's no alcohol in his system; but there's a nagging in the back of his mind that he can't shake until they're on the couch, still in their coats and kissing and kissing and kissing.

"What about God," Pete blurts as they pant into each other's mouths, and he feels his hips rock forward of their own accord. The dim light of the lounge seems only to highlight Patrick's scowl.

"Andy isn't God!" Patrick bristles, giving Pete's shoulder an absent-minded shove as he wrestles with the zip of his jacket.

"Then who is Andy?" Pete asks, pulling his gloves off and aiming them at the coffee table. He misses.

Patrick places his hands on Pete's cheeks and kisses him hard before responding, "Andy's... _Andy._ He's like, my, my...I don't know."

"How can you _not know?_ " Pete questions, letting his and Patrick's jackets fall to the floor and telling himself he _will_ pick them up later or he won't sleep properly.

Patrick can't respond for at least a minute due to the one hundred percent increase of tongue in his mouth, by which time he's looking slightly flustered, his familiar air of certainty faltering. "I...uh...I don't fucking _know,_ okay," he breathes, his fingers clutching at Pete's jumper, his lips hovering near Pete's jaw.

It doesn't matter what Patrick doesn't know, though, because Pete's forgotten the question with Patrick's exposed neck so near, and he can't focus on anything but getting his mouth on it, dragging his teeth over Patrick's skin.

The effect this has upon Patrick is more than Pete's come to expect from past experience; the boy's fingers suddenly tighten their grip, and a rumbling growl sounds from deep in Patrick's chest. Pete takes his hands off the kid, hoping to God he didn't accidentally touch the halo, but Patrick pulls him closer and bites, hard, into Pete's shoulder.

Pete cries out, but Patrick doesn't stop, his hands clamped around Pete's biceps and the growls still ripping through him as he sinks his teeth into Pete's skin over and over, his hips snapping forward repeatedly, pushing Pete back until he can't move, can't hear anything but Patrick's crazed snarls and harsh breathing. "Stop," Pete pants, pushing at Patrick's rigid forearms as pain sears through his shoulder, "Patrick, _stop. Patrick!"_

Finally, _finally,_ Patrick hears him, registers whatever the hell he's doing, and pulls back, chest heaving. Pete pushes him away, stares at him from the other end of the couch, clutching at the sore skin of his collarbone, coated in Patrick's spit. He better not have drawn blood. "I'm sorry," the boy says quietly, wiping at his mouth, "I – I didn't-"

" _Shit,_ Patrick, that hurt," Pete says, wincing at the stinging sensation, "no... _biting,_ alright? Jesus." He can't quite get over the ravenous look on Patrick's face, the same raw wildness that the fireworks brought out. Maybe it's God's way of telling Pete not to mess around with angels.

"But you-"

"I know," Pete snaps, "I know I did it, but it was gentle, yeah? Nothing like... _that._ Don't do that again, Patrick. Don't growl, either, it's...weird."

The boy blinks at Pete, big doe eyes that hide whatever's underneath, then curls in on himself, bringing his legs up in front of him and hiding behind his knees. "I can't fucking help it, it just _happened,_ I didn't know, nobody's ever...before."

It occurs to Pete, at this point, that they've been going far too fast. He's been so preoccupied with the hellish consequences that he's forgotten all the other reasons why they shouldn't do this, the sheer amount Patrick has to learn; Pete was his first kiss, his first...well, everything, it looks like. And instead of helping him, teaching him what to do and what not to do, Pete's treated him like all his other fleeting lovers. Make the most of it, it'll be gone in the morning. Take it home, take it all the way, take it nowhere.

"It's alright," Pete says with an exhale, revelling in the realisation that they have all the time in the world for this. Or, all the time that Pete has left. "We don't have to do this now, we can wait."

Patrick gestures between them. "Is _this..._ sex?"

"No, no," Pete says, sitting up and smiling fondly, "not yet. Not until..." Pete thinks about making an obscene gesture to demonstrate his point, then abruptly strangles the thought. "We can just, like, get off a different way, if you want?"

"Get off what? The couch?" Patrick asks, his eyebrows knitting together and his knees finally lowering from in front of his face.

Pete laughs aloud at that, shaking his head and touching a hand to Patrick's foot. "No, no, get off as in, like orgasms," he grins.

"Oh," Patrick nods, not looking like he's at all enlightened, "like, the tingly thing with the..." he makes a gesture with his hand, not unlike a firework, with lewd connotations.

"Yeah," Pete giggles, then stops fast with wondering. "Wait, you have, like, done the tingly thing before, right?"

The look on Patrick's face in answer to that question is so hilariously _human_ that Pete begins to feel a lot better about the debauching of angels; he nods with a blush in his cheeks and a quirk in his mouth that Pete remembers well from awkward teenage conversations. "Only, like...by myself."

"So, so, the other angels are okay with that?" Pete says cautiously, crawling up the sofa towards Patrick and wondering why in heaven's name Patrick's wings are still trapped underneath his jumper. "Do they do it too?"

"Um," Patrick stumbles, shoving his jumper over his head to reveal his bandaged and belted chest. Pete can see feathers peeking out here and there, and it blows his mind a little bit. "I don't know. They don't like to talk about it. I do it in the dark, so they don't know about it."

"So, this isn't, like, sinning?" Pete asks, his hands already skimming over Patrick's skin to loosen the belts.

Patrick kisses him softly, carefully, before responding, "I don't fucking know. Everything's fucking _sinning_ to them, even late nights. They don't let me do fucking _anything,_ I _hate_ it, I-" He huffs sharply and rests his forehead against Pete's neck. Pete pretends not to be panicked about Patrick's past, and unwraps the bandages, smiling when he sees there are no angry sores on Patrick's skin.

The boy sighs beautifully as he spreads his wings out, one crumpling against the back of the sofa but the other stretching into a perfect white arc. A tremble ripples through them for a split second, ruffled feathers puffing up and settling down again into impossibly more perfect rows. Patrick does this a couple more times before he's satisfied, then folds them loosely behind him and pulls a dumbstruck Pete into a sloppy kiss.

"I like kissing," Patrick breathes, "maybe more than nuzzling," he ponders, and Pete decides to just let him ponder as he himself focuses on getting Patrick into a suitable sex position. After a mixture of kissing and shoving, Patrick ends up crumpled into the corner of the sofa with Pete on top of him, his wings splayed behind him. "What are we gonna do?" Patrick asks, all wide-eyes and pale skin.

"Just...uh," Pete's dick makes the decision for him, and before he knows it, he's shoving Patrick's jeans down and latching his mouth to Patrick's chest, kissing and licking and (very carefully) nipping at his skin, digging his fingers into Patrick's soft stomach.

When Pete looks up at him, the boy's got a hand clamped over his mouth, stifling whatever glorious sounds he might be making, and _that's_ a sin if ever Pete saw one. "You can make noise," he pants between kisses, "be loud."

The experimental moan Patrick lets out makes them both giggle, but then Pete's worming a hand into Patrick's briefs and he moans for real, dropping his head back against the cushions as Pete confirms that a) angels have dicks, and b) angels react much the same as humans when sexually stimulated. Patrick pushes his hips up into Pete's hand, and Pete feels a little rush of pride when he realises in the moment that he's Patrick's first, the first to make him squirm like that, to make him look like porn on a plate with his mouth hanging open and his eyebrows pinched together.

Pete's barely established a rhythm before Patrick's arching his back and coming over Pete's hand, his wings stretching briefly before slumping into the sofa. Then there's hands in his hair and he's being pulled into a lazy kiss, giving Pete a chance to surreptitiously wipe his hand on Patrick's underwear and shove it down his own pants. Pete's a little disappointed that Patrick's climax didn't result in him glowing, or singing or something heavenly. Maybe that only happens during _real_ sex; Pete makes a note to test that theory at some point.

"That was fucking _awesome,"_ Patrick grins, pushing himself up on his elbows and finally managing to look less dazed. "Can I see your dick?"

Pete tries his utmost not to let insecurity get the better of him as Patrick treats his dick like some kind of exotic insect; he takes it carefully in his hand and peers at it, only starting to jerk him when Pete whines wantonly in his ear. It's not the greatest hand-job he's ever received, but the noise of surprise and delight Patrick makes when Pete finally blows his load is sort of worth it.

They kiss softly for a little while, until Pete practically yells at Patrick _not_ to even _think_ about wiping his hand on the couch, and decides they need to clean up.

Prying Patrick away proves difficult; not only because he clings like a koala in the wind, but because he's so wonderfully cuddly that Pete's mouth refuses to form the _I need a shower,_ and Pete's hands keep accidentally curling tighter around him. Plus, he's engulfed in wings, which are heavy when their owner is practically passed out on top of him. So he skips the shower.

The boy isn't aware of the human tradition of sleeping next to your chosen special person. When Pete asks if he'd like to share Pete's bed, he frowns and shakes his head and says it's _Pete's_ bed, he's not allowed. He says once when he was little and he had a scary dream he slept in Andy's bed, and in the morning they shouted at him. Pete's becoming more than a little worried about who _they_ are, but he doesn't ask, not tonight. It would truly be a sin to wipe the dazzling smile from Patrick's face.

Patrick doesn't care that Pete's sheets aren't the cleanest, or that Pete finds it almost impossible to brush his teeth without toothpaste dripping down his chin, or that the boxers Pete wears to bed are holey to the point of indecency. It's awkward at first, staring at each other in their underwear, climbing into bed and sitting in silence like an estranged married couple, but then Patrick stretches out his wing to touch Pete's shoulder, and Pete decides he'd like to hold Patrick's hand, and before he knows it he's wrapped in an enormous feathery hug.

"Patrick," he mumbles, huffing fluff out of his face, "how do you even sleep with, like, _these?"_ He pokes at the ridge of Patrick's wing-bone where it's pressed into his shoulder.

The boy shrugs. "On my side, I guess. When I fold them up they're not as huge and awkward," he grins, snuggling impossibly closer and rubbing his nose into Pete's collarbone. Pete pretends not to feel the shot of regret that runs through him, the fear that he's led Patrick on too much, too far, that he's not going to be able to give Patrick what he expects of Pete. Instead, he lets Patrick smother him, kisses the top of Patrick's head like this is more than a mistake.

When they've turned the lights out, Patrick tells Pete that this was the best day of his life. Pete tells Patrick to go to sleep.

-

It's better in the morning. Pete doesn't wake up alone; Patrick's still right there beside him, a wing draped over the two of them and an arm curled over Pete's hip. Patrick sleeps like the dead, and doesn't stir as Pete huddles into the solid warmth of his soft chest. He tries to sleep, but ends up staring at Patrick's feathers, nestling his fingers into the short fluff near the bones and tracing the spines of the sweeping flight feathers. Patrick's halo glints on his arm, and Pete doesn't dare touch it as he plays with Patrick's fingers. He wonders what it is, what it's made of, how something so material can be a living part of Patrick. There's so much he doesn't know, so much he _wants_ to know.

With his mind whirring and greyish light filtering through the curtains, there's no chance of Pete going back to sleep, so he peels himself away from Patrick and into the cold of the bathroom. It's strange having someone else to think of, having a reason not to be too loud, a reason to make two cups of tea rather than just one.

Patrick likes a _lot_ of milk in his tea, and Pete suspects it's because he likes the idea of tea more than he likes the taste, which is fair enough, Pete supposes. He _hates_ coffee with a passion, but he always steals the foam from Pete's cappucinos, which would be annoying if it wasn't so cute to watch. Pete finds himself smiling as the kettle boils, wandering around the living room and throwing open the curtains.

The grey light that spills into the room is a little disappointing, but it hardly puts a dent in Pete's mood. He hums to himself as he pours the tea, hoping it might brew a little faster than usual so Pete can resume what can only be described as the best snuggle-fest he's ever experienced. Then there's a knock at the door.

Pete huffs a little; it's probably Mrs. Ridley with some electrical issue, or the owner of the black Labrador that keeps escaping. Pete's still not entirely sure whether Patrick is behind that; he befriends animals at a rather alarming rate.

When he opens the door, three men stand on the doorstep. They're dressed in dark clothes, and there's a black van sitting outside his house.

"Hey-" Pete starts, but they're already pushing inside. Their hands clamp on his shoulders, and they twist him to face away from them.

Pete goes to speak again, but the slamming of his front door silences him, and suddenly all he can hear is his own breathing. Then, he feels metal, cold against the back of his neck.

Raising his hands, Pete tries to calm himself down. "Who are you?" he stammers, "Why are you here?"

The man behind him breathes a smile into his ear. "We're here for the angel." 


	14. I Love You, But You're Useless In A Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> holy fuck I updated 
> 
> (I beat FOB. As would an arthritic tortoise, but still) 
> 
> p.s. lol hope you enjoy 
> 
> *quiet snickering from the back of the class*

Patrick is barely conscious when he feels their hands on him.

He tries to move, but his arms are pinned down, and his wings are useless under the weight of their boots, their fucking _boots_ , and he barely has time to process that this is them, this is what he's been running from, they've got him it's over he's failed, before he sees the glint of a syringe in the gloved hand of one of the men. And he's sure as fucking hell not letting _that_ get anywhere near him.

He cries out, wrenching his arm from its hold and slamming his fist into the nearest thing he sees, which just so happens to be that fucking dickhead with the fucking needle. The room's coming into focus now, he can see their outlines in the grey light, he can see their guns pointed at him.

They're all shouting, like they always are, directed at him, like it always is, and he yells as loud as he can just to hear himself over them. They don't like people, they won't want to draw attention, so he keeps yelling until a hand clamps over his mouth, squeezing until his cheeks burn with future bruises and his jaw aches.

"We've got you now," the man silencing him smirks, and of course it's Johnson, with his horrid crooked teeth and his pinched face. "Get a move on," he hisses at someone, and there's the needle again; Johnson grabs Patrick by the hair and drags his head back, exposing his neck, hand still crushing Patrick's cheeks into his teeth.

With a muffled shriek, Patrick thrashes as hard as he can, twisting his head away from the needle and pulling desperately at the hands pinning down his wrists. If he could only get his hands free, he's stronger than them and they know it, and he's going to... _yes_! His coiled fist flies into Johnson's stupid fucking face, and the hand disappears from his mouth. Gasping for breath, he lurches towards the man, wing still trapped under his feet, and shoves him off the bed, right into the guy with the needle.

The man on the other side of him – Benji, he's always been a fucking coward – has already let go, and backs away as Patrick scrambles out of the twisted duvet and almost collides with the floor, catching his balance at the last second and running, running anywhere but here. Running out of the bedroom and straight into Pete.

Pete.

Pete who looks more terrified than Patrick's ever seen him, Pete who should still be asleep, cuddled up to Patrick, Pete who's trapped in the arms of another man with a gun to the back of his head.

"I'm sorry, Patrick," he cries, his voice in pieces, "they came in and they grabbed me and I couldn't stop them, I couldn't and they've got _guns_ , Patrick, they've got guns!" They both manage to regain their balance as the men rush towards them, and Patrick knows he has to act fast.

As soon as he feels hands on his wings, he flaps them as hard as he can whilst launching himself at Pete's captor, twisting the arm with the gun until the man's hand loosens and he drops the weapon with a shout of pain. Patrick doesn't recognise that one, and almost feels bad when he slams the man's head into the wall. At least he knows for certain that the others are bastards.

Sweeping the gun off the floor, he grabs a horrified-looking Pete and tries to figure out an escape. But the men are blocking the stairs, and the skylight is the only window on the landing. Instead, he backs them both into the corner, spreading his wings to shield Pete and pointing the gun towards the advancing men. "Stay _the fuck_ still or I'll shoot," he asserts, feeling Pete shift behind him.

To his relief, the man at the front waves a hand to stop his team-mates, and there's a few seconds of stunned silence in which Patrick manages to get his breath back, and the man he knocked down is helped to his feet. There's blood running down the faces of a few of them, and a sting in Patrick's knuckles.

"Patrick," the man at the front says, and Patrick feels a chill over him when he realises it's Franklin. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be," he goes on, always calm. He's the tallest of the lot of them, and the oldest. There's seven of them; Patrick recognises four, but he'll be sure to learn the names of the others so he can curse them, too.

"Patrick, what's going on?" Pete says, whispered. "They – they don't have a search warrant, this is _illegal_ , they know who I am, Patrick, how do they know that?" His fingers rest lightly on Patrick's hips, clutching at his bare torso. Patrick wishes he was wearing more than just pyjama pants.

He wants to reply, to tell Pete that it'll be okay, somehow, he's got away from them before and he can do it again, but Franklin's stare is boring into him, and he can see the smug face of fucking Johnson close behind. "We've been looking for you for months. It's time you came home."

It's sweet talk. He's making home sound like a place that misses him, a place that he misses. It's bullshit. "No," Patrick spits, "I'm not going back."

"Oh, yes you are," Johnson smiles, laughing when Patrick trains the gun on him. "You don't even know how to use that."

He's wrong about that, though. Patrick may never have fired a gun before, but he once stole one and disassembled it, and God knows he's been around them long enough to know roughly what to do. There's no safety, so he simply raises it with both hands and squeezes the trigger.

The kickback is more than he expected, and he's slammed backwards into Pete, ears ringing.

"...Oh my God, Patrick, oh my God..." he can hear Pete saying, and Patrick sees he's made a hole in Pete's wall, near the ceiling. The group's heads are ducked away from the firing line, shock across their faces.

"Patrick, for goodness' sake, put the gun down," Franklin says, but his hand rests upon his own gun, and Patrick's still revelling in the fear on the men's faces. They don't have to know that he'd never aim it at a person; they think he's a crazed lunatic, always have.

Patrick shakes his head and trains the gun on Franklin. "I'm not going back."

Johnson steps forward, his own gun aimed at Pete's face. "Put the gun down, brat, or Wentz is dead."

"Don't fucking talk to him," Patrick growls, leaning back until he can feel Pete's chest against his wings. He takes a hand off the gun and places it over Pete's, squeezing his trembling fingers.

The smirk that appears on the man's face makes Patrick's blood boil. "Oh, has feathers got a boyfriend? Is feathers a _faggot_?"

Patrick doesn't know what that word means, but the way the other men laugh is enough for him to know it's a fucking shitty thing to say. When Johnson steps forward, Patrick hisses as loud as he dares, baring his teeth and letting the sound rip through him; his feathers puff out and he hears Pete make a sort of whimpering noise. Pete hasn't heard him hiss before.

Johnson has, though, and he just steps closer, gesturing towards Pete. "What are we doing with this one?" he asks in the direction of the other men.

Franklin holds up a finger, the other hand pressed to his ear. "...yes, he's here. Yes. No, he's armed. Blame Carmichael. What about Wentz?" His eyes move between the two of them, lingering on their joined hands. "Yes, I would assume so. Yeah, once we've got the kid, Wentz will come easy. Fine. Out."

"Are we killing him or what?" one of the other men asks, and Patrick feels Pete shrink further into the wall.

As Patrick begins to growl, Pete begins to plead. "Listen, I'm not worth it, please, don't shoot me, I didn't ask for this, please, you're – you're – this is illegal! I'll take you to court!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Franklin says, tutting, "they want him too." He signals to the man with the needles, says something too quiet for Patrick to hear.

Pete takes a deep breath. "Who wants me?! What are they going to-!"

Johnson lets out an exaggerated groan, and looks past Patrick at Pete, cutting the man off. "Shut up," he says, then steps far too close for comfort. Patrick snarls deep in his throat, louder when Johnson presses the muzzle of his gun to the soft skin underneath Patrick's jaw. He won't shoot, but he smiles like he's thinking about it. "I've missed you, feathers. My favourite freak."

"Fuck off," Patrick growls, "You're not doing fucking anything to him. You won't hurt him. You won't take him up there. I won't fucking let you."

Johnson just raises his eyebrows in that way that makes Patrick feel so incredibly small. "You've learnt some new words," he notes, then leans in close to Patrick's face, lowering his voice. "Did you let him _fuck_ you, feathers?"

And Patrick's mouth doesn't know which answer to form, distracted by the metal against his skin and the leering face of Johnson looming over him. Underneath everything, the confidence he's putting on for Pete, he's utterly terrified. He's been dreading this, he's had countless nightmares about them dragging him from his bed and taking him back home, he's blocked these people from his mind and now his defences are crumbling. He's so, so scared. And they know it.

"It's over," Johnson murmurs, "we've chased your stupid fat arse around the country for long enough. We're going to knock you out and take you back where you belong, being cut open on that bloody table."

"Fuck off," Patrick says again, but it's broken in half by traitor tears. Pete's thumb strokes gently over his hip, and Patrick wishes, _wishes_ that they could have had more time, more touches and kisses.

"Hey," Pete pipes up, renewed energy in his voice. Johnson's eyes snap towards him, and Patrick tightens his hold on the gun. "Don't – don't talk to him like that. You can't take him anywhere by force, I've already got allegations of an unwarranted search, unauthorised carrying of firearms, attempted abduction and abuse, this is not a legal means of finding missing persons, if you want Patrick back I'd advise you to seek further government -"

"I'll tell you one more time," Johnson interrupts, "shut _up_ , lawyer."

"Wentz," Franklin sighs, stepping closer. "It's in your best interests to stay out of this, but by the looks of it, you know too much already. I suggest you step away from the angel, and neither of you will get hurt."

Patrick just presses himself more tightly to Pete and begins to growl again. "You're lying. You never stopped fucking hurting me."

For a moment, Franklin's eyes soften, and he purses his lips. Then, in the next second, he turns back to stone. "That's up to White. Who is furious, by the way." He says it with a heaviness, like even he feels sorry for Patrick. "Hurley's been worried sick."

"I don't care," Patrick says, even though he does. He aggressively doesn't think about Andy, or White, or what they'll do to him if they take him home. When they take him home.

Throughout the course of the conversation, the group have moved closer. One of them holds a syringe in his gloved hand, and stands back from the rest, waiting. Patrick can feel Pete's stuttering breaths against the back of his neck, he wants to turn and kiss Pete one last time before this is over and he's put back in his prison. Instead, he just stares, daring them to touch him.

When Johnson trains his weapon on Pete again, Patrick snaps. A smack to the back of the head with the grip of his gun has Johnson falling to the ground, and after that, things begin to get confused; the others lunge at Patrick, and before he knows it, he can't breathe, Franklin's hand tight to his throat.

He struggles, like hell he struggles, aiming his fingers at their eyes and his knees at their guts, but he sees the moment that Franklin gives up playing nice, and realises too late.

Someone's hand grabs his halo, and the pain is blinding.

He hadn't forgotten, he doesn't think he ever could, but the memories of them hurting him like this had begun to fade into the background. Now he forgets everything but pain, like someone's torn his chest open and smashed through his ribcage, like he's imploding. They don't do this normally, not since it was proved to be detrimental to his health, but they remember exactly how to make it hurt most: rough hands and ugly intentions.

In his hysteria, they've dragged him away from Pete; through blurred vision Patrick can see him being restrained with gloved hands. He tries to flap his wings, but someone's holding them in place, tries to shout, but someone's fingers push against his windpipe. Then there's metal raking against his halo, and his legs give out, it's too much, too much pain, too much to stay awake through.

His vision clouds over for a second, and it's a second too long. There's a hand in his hair and his head's being pulled back as someone barks orders. He tries to cover his neck, but his arms won't move and the needle's already coming for him. The sting in his throat lets him know that it's over. He drops the gun.

It's slow – too slow, he'd rather they just cracked his head against the wall – and maybe it's his imagination, but he can feel it spreading around his body, messing with his head. He breathes hard, fighting their every move, but he can't stop his head falling to the side when the hand leaves his hair, and his wings only manage a few feeble flaps before they're heavy and useless. He blinks furiously, he's got to keep his eyes open, that's the key, _keep your eyes open_ , but they surrender as quickly as the rest of his muscles.

He can hear someone – Pete, the remaining conscious thoughts tell him – shouting his name, but it fades too fast as he falls to the bottom of the darkness and hits his head. After that, there's nothing.

-

When Patrick wakes up, he cries.

Not because he's a fucking _baby_ , he's just drowsy from the drugs and disorientated because he's back where he belongs. It takes him a few moments to register this, to look around at the white walls and the lights and same fucking white sheets and realise it's over. His discovery, his laughter, his relationship with the man he's pretty sure he loves. The lights sting his eyes.

He can't face it, at first. He stares at the ceiling for a while, then sobs quietly into the pillow for a while more. It doesn't smell of Pete, and for a terrifying moment, he thinks maybe it was all just a dream, and Pete doesn't exist. Maybe his mind made it all up to distract him from the terrible loneliness he's just opened his eyes to.

There's no one in the room when he finally wrenches himself up onto his elbows. It's not his own room, it's the recovery room, and instinctively, he looks down at himself, pulling up his shirt and checking for new scars. They've put him back in his usual clothes; his grey shirt, buttoned at the back around his wings, his grey trousers, grey everything. He feels a little bit sick when he tries to move his legs, and sees that one of his ankles has been cuffed to the end of the bed.

He stiffens when he hears a key in the lock of the door - it won't open without a key, not since the incident a few years ago - and tries to hide himself under his wings. He can't face White right now, not without crying, not without begging, and he hates _hates_ doing either. They love it when he's weak.

"Patrick," Andy's soft voice says, and Patrick feels himself relax when the man steps into the room and closes the door behind him. He looks a strange mix of tired and furious.

"Andy," Patrick squeaks, curling further into the corner of the bed and feeling his confidence flee as Andy nears, his expression darkening. He watches as Andy sits down carefully in the seat next to the bed - he's got that look on his face that says they're going to have a little talk, and it's not going to be a fun one.

"Patrick," Andy sighs again, clasping his hands in front of him and meeting Patrick's guilty gaze. "What were you thinking?"

"What was I thinking when?" Patrick asks, not sure whether Andy's most angry about Pete, or the gun, or just everything in general. 

Andy purses his lips. "You know _when_ , Patrick. When you ran away like that. When you cost us so much time and resources. When you nearly got yourself killed down there."

Ah. So they're saving Pete 'til later. "I didn't get killed," Patrick says stupidly, bringing his wings tighter around himself.

"No, Patrick, but you could have. Didn't we tell you, there's all sorts of dangerous things down there, you-"

"They have animals, Andy!" Patrick yelps all of a sudden, "like, other living things that aren't shaped like people! And the food, it's - it's nice, and there's no ceilings outdoors, there's just sky and it makes water sometimes and sometimes ice, and - and they have music! Not just piano music, different types, different sounds, it was amazing, Andy!" His voice rings around the room and he snaps his mouth shut quickly, watching Andy's face.

"Enough," Andy growls, shaking his head. "You're not going back there, Patrick, and don't think for one second that you won't pay for this. When White asks, you tell her it was awful. You tell her you've learnt your lesson, and that you wouldn't dream of going back."

"But it wasn't awful, I _want_ to go back, I-"

"I know, Patrick," Andy says over the top of him, and Patrick flinches, but Andy's expression softens. "I know. But you'll only make this worse for yourself if you antagonise her. She's already angry."

Patrick nods, tracing the bruises along his forearms. He can't have been out for too long, or they would have faded. "I don't regret it," he mumbles at his knees.

Andy's face twists into a bitter smile. "You never do, Patrick."

A long silence stretches out between them as Patrick tries to decide whether to ask about Pete, and simultaneously tries not to start crying again. Andy's not the worst person to cry in front of - he even gave Patrick a hug, once - but he doesn't appreciate searches for sympathy.

"Where's Pete," Patrick says quietly after finally plucking up the courage.

"He's with Franklin and Wan. They're just sorting some things out." Andy says, avoiding Patrick's gaze.

"You brought him here?!" Patrick exclaims, the chain around his foot rattling as he squirms. Sure, the prospect of Pete being all the way back on Earth and Patrick never seeing him ever again was enough to nearly kill Patrick, but him being up here, getting hurt too? It might be even worse. "I won't fucking let you hurt him," he spits, "I'll kill you all before you touch him."

At that, Andy snorts. "Don't be stupid, Patrick. He's simply being written into the schedule. You do realise that him being here changes a lot of things, don't you?"

"Like what?" Patrick bristles, his hands clenched into fists. "What are you going to do to him?"

"What is your relationship to him?" Andy interrupts, but Patrick doesn't have time to growl an answer before the door opens again.

This time, it's White.

She doesn't look any different; her brown hair's still in its ruffled bob, she still wears her white coat, identical to Andy's. She's got a briefcase in her hand which she sets silently on the spindly metal table across the room. The lines around her mouth still crease when she looks at Patrick, her eyes still blaze with fury. He resists the urge to hide his face in his wing.

"Of all the stupid things you've done, Patrick," she snarls, spitting his name like a curse, "this tops the list." She stalks towards Patrick, and before he knows it, she's grabbed his face, fingers tight to his chin, forcing him to look at her. Then she shines a light in his face, and he automatically shuts his eyes; this is a mistake.

"Don't act like you've forgotten how this works," she hisses, forcing his eyes open with her fingers and shining the torch again. He doesn't dare resist her; he's done that multiple times before, and it always results in an absence of anaesthetic the next time he's on the table.

So he lets her jerk his jaw up to expose his neck, listens to her hum words of approval as she runs her fingers over the spot where the drug was injected. She pulls at his feathers, inspects his fingernails (which Patrick thinks might've been cut since he last saw them) and briefly touches his halo. It doesn't hurt, not really, because she's not intending to cause Patrick pain, but he flinches anyway, and she tuts at him.

She keeps tutting as she combs her hand through his hair and he yelps as her fingers snag on knots. "This needs to be cut," she says as she lets the long strands fall in Patrick's face. He blinks rapidly, circular smudges of white still imprinted on his vision. 

"Where's Pete?" he asks again when she's retreated towards the briefcase, as loudly as he dares.

"Probably still crying, I expect," she says absently, lifting a gun-like contraption out of the case. Patrick's chest tightens at the thought of Pete crying, Pete doesn't know that you shouldn't cry in front of these people, they'll only use it against you. "You picked a real coward, Patrick."

"Don't insult him," Patrick snaps, then regrets it when she turns her glare on him, wielding the gun. He's seen that thing before.

"Don't talk back," she responds, grabbing his wrist and pressing the gun to his forearm. He doesn't push her away, just squeezes his eyes shut as she pulls the trigger and the machine makes a mechanical hissing noise. It hurts like hell, but she holds his arm in place as she removes the gun and places a round plaster over the spot of blood underneath. Patrick glares at it. It's a tracker, just like the last one, the one he clawed out of his flesh in a London alleyway. "Damage this one, and the next one goes in your chest," she says curtly.

"Don't hurt him," Patrick pleads, cradling his arm, "Let him go."

"He knows too much, Patrick," she sighs, "you told him too much."

"He asked! He made me tell him!"

At that, she stares at him. "He forced you? Who is he working for?"

" _No_ ," Patrick huffs with slightly too much attitude, "he wanted to know. He wanted to know _me_." He says it with no small amount of pride.

"Oh, let me guess," she smiles, "you _love_ him, do you? You think he'll get you out of this, you think he'll save you?"

"I-"

"He's a coward, Patrick, he's scared out of his mind, he'll leave you at the first opportunity. You're a novelty, he'll get bored of you soon."

At that, Patrick bursts into flame. "Fuck you!" he shouts, and he hears Andy say his name as White rounds on him. "He's not a fucking coward, he's amazing and clever and I fucking love him, you piece of shit!"

There's a small and terrifying silence as White takes in his words. Then, she walks calmly over to the bed and grabs a handful of his hair, dragging him upwards and sending white-hot pain through his scalp. He shuts his eyes, but he can still feel her breath on his face.

"Listen, you obnoxious little brat," she hisses, " _never_ speak to me like that again. You _will_ do as I say. You _will_ keep your filthy mouth _shut_. You _will not_ put a single damn feather out of line, or I will make your lonely little life so unbearable that you'll _beg_ me to kill you. Is that clear?"

He begins to growl, but she shakes him so hard that all he can manage is a whimper.

"I said, _is that clear_?"

"Yes," he croaks, and she finally drops him. He crumples onto the bed, curling his wings over himself.

"Good," she says. "You're due at the table in an hour."

"What?" he yelps, desperately looking to Andy for some sort of help.

"This soon?" Andy asks, "I don't think that's-"

"One hour. Unless you want us to cut up Wentz, instead," she shrugs, snapping the briefcase closed and backing out of the room.She doesn't wait for a response before the door slams behind her.

"Well done, Patrick," Andy sighs, voice heavy with sarcasm. "Thank goodness you didn't antagonise her."

But Patrick doesn't have the energy to shout, or to keep the tears in. They spill from his eyes, and won't go away no matter how hard he pushes his hands into his eye-sockets.

"Hey," Andy says, his tone softer. "It's okay, it'll be okay." He touches a hand to Patrick's wing where it's covering his body and strokes a finger across it.

"They don't do this," Patrick sniffs, "on Earth, they don't do this. Do I have to, Andy?" He knows what the answer will be, but he wants Andy to stay longer, to talk to him longer so he doesn't have to go back to crying alone.

"Yes, Patrick," the man soothes, "but it's not a long one, okay? They just want to see what's inside your stomach, and how the different food has affected your digestion, okay? They'll knock you out, you won't feel anything."

Patrick's gut tightens as if in protest. "Is it intrusive?"

Andy's sigh confirms it before his words can. "Yes, but it'll be one cut, at the most. Most of the procedure can be carried out externally."

At least that's something. There's been times when he's woken up bleeding or blind or choking on his own vomit. It doesn't stop the tears, though, doesn't help the fact that his old life seems like torture now that he's tasted freedom, for the first and the last time.

"Hey," Andy says, giving his wing a gentle tap. "I'll have a word with Franklin, see what I can do about letting you see Pete later on, how does that sound?"

Patrick lowers his wing at that, meeting Andy's warm gaze, and nods slightly, attempting something like a smile. "Don't fucking hurt him," he says again. He really _really_ wants to make that point entirely clear.

Andy's smile is as weak as Patrick's. "No. I'll see to it that they don't. But you do need to play nice for a little while, okay? Just until this all passes. Then you can go back to terrorising the whole place, okay?"

At that, Patrick manages a giggle, but then Andy starts to get up and he begins to panic.

"Get some rest, Patrick, I'll come and get you when-"

"Stay," he says, fast, hopefully fast enough that Andy won't react badly.

"I can't Patrick, I've got things I need to-"

"Please."

But Andy huffs in annoyance and shakes his head at Patrick. "No. Clearly, you think you can look after yourself. Get some rest, Patrick."

He slams the door behind him. Patrick looks around at the empty room, his empty life, and traces the spot where the tracker was injected. They've got him, now, forever. There's an ache in his chest that wants Pete like it's never wanted anything before, and he wonders if that really is love. He wonders if he'll ever be allowed to wholly feel it, if they'll ever stop taking pieces out of him. 

He shifts to face the wall and cries into his feathers until he falls asleep. 


	15. Congratulations, You're Not The Weirdest Thing About My Life Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I am still alive. This was supposed to be a filler chapter, Ha Ha. 
> 
> Please keep leaving your lovely comments, they really do help motivate me to get off my ass and write this thing - things are gonna get interesting in the next few chapters, I promise. 
> 
> Shoutout to FOB for a cinematic masterpiece, and to my laptop for surviving the Tea Spillage of July 2017. 
> 
> Love you as always, enjoy! xx

Pete has no idea what in the ever-loving fuck is going on.

More than anything, he's relieved he had the good sense to throw some clothes on after waking up that morning, or he'd have had to go through all this - the break in, the threatening, the drugging and now the interrogation - wearing nothing but his holey boxers. At least he's got sweatpants and a baggy jumper to hide in as these...people? stare at him like he's some rare animal.

He'd woken up in some generic-looking hospital room that made him think he'd been in a coma the last few months and finally woken up from an insane dream about an angel boy. But then that guy, that Franklin guy, a heavyset fifty-something with an Arnold Schwarzenegger haircut and, oh yeah, a  _gun_ sitting proudly in his belt, walked in and it all came flooding back to him. Pete's watched enough action movies to know that guys that look like  _that_ are something to be scared of.

And he is scared, even when the guy tells him to calm down, it's all going to be fine. He's led through to another, impossibly whiter room and sat down at a table. His stomach squeezes tight when he realises it's not unlike the usual three-chairs-and-a-desk setup of police interrogations.

"Where am I?" is the first thing he asks. He figures it's a good place to start, and he wants to stop Franklin pacing around like he is.

"That's classified, I'm afraid," he responds easily, glancing at his watch. Pete is rather terrified to find out what they might be waiting for.

"Uh, okay," Pete says shakily. What else can he say to a man with a gun? He stares around at the blinding white walls, the spotless floors, the bright lights that leave stains on his vision. "Is this heaven?" It's the only conclusion he can come to.

Franklin stares at him for a few seconds, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "If you like," he shrugs.

Pete begins to feel a little queasy as the trauma catches up to him. "How - uh, why am I here?"

"First, to sign a non-disclosure agreement. We'll see where it goes from there." Franklin checks his watch again while Pete's thoughts get smudged into one another.

"You - you have those? Here? What for?"

"The same reasons you have them. You're a lawyer, this is something you should be familiar with."

And yes, he  _is_ familiar with them, but not in  _heaven_ having just been knocked out and abducted. Then something rather terrifying dawns on him. "Wait - am I dead?"

Franklin looks at him blankly for a moment. "What?"

"Am I - how - to get to heaven you've got to be dead, right? Did I die? Did  _you_ kill me?!" he cries, touching the back of his head where it was smacked into the wall. Maybe the impact did more than knock him unconscious, maybe when they said they wanted him, they wanted him  _dead,_ but he can't be dead, he can't die, not like this. He feels tears sting his eyes and blinks them away as fast as he can.

"You're not dead, Wentz," Franklin says slowly, and Pete can feel his eyes scanning his face.

"But - I mean, you - you broke into my house! You - you threatened me, you broke all kinds of laws, I-"

"The law doesn't apply to us in the same way as it does to you, Wentz," he snaps. But Pete can't quite deal with being dead  _and_ being shouted at, and a lump begins to form in his throat.

"What am I supposed to do now I'm dead? Am I stuck here forever? I have a job, and - and a cat, what am I supposed to do, I  _can't_ be dead, I just -"

"You're  _not dead,_ Wentz," the other man says, louder, and it echoes around the room, making Pete panic even more.

"Then how did I get here?!" he says shrilly, his voice cracking and his hands trembling on the arms of the chair.

"You took something that didn't belong to you, we came to get it back, and you got in the way," Franklin says curtly, turning his nose up at Pete.

"Wha-  _Patrick?_ " Pete exclaims, "he's not - I didn't  _take_ him, he - where is he?" Pete stammers, looking around the room as if Patrick might be crouched in one of the non-existent hiding places.

"He's being dealt with," Franklin growls, and Pete remembers more clearly, now; the threats they'd made, the way they'd ripped Patrick away from Pete and held his thrashing body still, the way they'd stuck that needle in his throat and he'd faded right in front of Pete's eyes. They'd gathered him up and taken him away, then they'd turned on Pete.

"What does that mean?" Pete asks, "You - you aren't going to kill him, are you?" He gulps back tears as it crosses his mind that Patrick might already be dead; maybe that stuff didn't just knock him out, maybe Pete saw Patrick die on his landing, and Patrick's left him all alone with these people.

"If we were going to kill him," Franklin sighs, sounding increasingly irritated, "we'd have done it years ago."

Pete has no idea if that's meant to be reassuring or not, but at least Patrick's alive. Pete somehow feels more secure, as if the world is slightly more balanced as long as Patrick's in it. It doesn't slow the steady filling of his eyes with tears, though. "Are you going to kill me?" he asks, head bowed as he tries to blink the moisture away.

"Again," the man huffs, "if we were going to do that, we'd have done it a while ago. You're no use to us dead, Wentz."

"No, he isn't," another voice sounds, and the door bursts open behind Pete. He curls in on himself instinctively, leaning away from the voice. Two women, one dressed in white and one in black, like some good-cop bad-cop caricature, stride past him and sit opposite him. One's dressed in a white coat, in her mid-fifties, maybe, judging by the world-weary look in her eyes, and the other's younger, with short black hair and olive skin. She actually  _smiles_ at him; he'd almost forgotten that friendliness existed in this weird pale world.

"Good morning, Mr. Wentz," she says, and after processing the fact that it's still the same morning as it was on Earth (or is it? Maybe a whole day went past. Maybe a week. Maybe a year) he manages a smile.  _Mr._ Wentz is a definite improvement. "How are you feeling?"

The back of his head gives a throb of annoyance, but he nods all the same. "Uh, okay, I think," he says as confidently as he can, "I'd like to know what's going on, please."

She smiles again, kind. "Of course. I'm Wan, and this is White," she says, gesturing towards the woman beside her, who hardly reacts beyond a glance. "Now, let me make one thing clear, Mr. Wentz. You are by no means obliged to be here. We apologise for the violence involved in your encounter with our representatives, but the property you stole - knowingly or unknowingly - urgently needed to be returned."

Pete's mouth obviously thinks it has something to say, because it opens with definite purpose, but his tongue won't form the sounds and his brain isn't cooperating on any level, so it simply closes resentfully. The woman - Wan - leans forward in her chair and folds her arms neatly on the table, staring intently at Pete.

"So, with that in mind," she says briskly, "we have an offer to make you. I understand that you've become rather well-acquainted with what you stole, and this kind of relationship is very useful to us. White has a few questions she'd like to ask you, and I'm sure we can put you to good use elsewhere; a six-month contract, at the most."

"Whoa - an employment contract?" Pete says, sitting up a little. " _Here?_ Why?"

"You could be very useful to us. Your knowledge of the property is invaluable. It wouldn't be difficult work, you'd be under Hurley's watchful eye, and you'd simply have to carry out our instructions."

"Uh...right," he says uncertainly. This is not where he saw the conversation going; he can almost feel them preying on his humanness. "I - uh, have a job already."

"We're well aware of that, Mr. Wentz. Your firm will be notified and I can guarantee that no questions will be asked. We will give you ten thousand pounds in compensation for this incident, and the same again for each week you contribute your knowledge to us. You will also be provided with living quarters for the duration of your stay," she says robotically, smiling again. It's beginning to become slightly sinister.

"But - I mean, I need to go home, I need clothes and - my, my pills and -"

"You'll be allowed home, Mr. Wentz, once you've gained security clearance. Anything you need before then, we'll be happy to retrieve for you, although all items brought here will have to go through extensive vetting. We're going to need you to sign this," - she brings out a slim briefcase, opens it and places a wad of paper and a pen in front of Pete - "and this." Now there's two dotted lines glaring at him. The nausea readies itself for a return appearance.

"Uh," Pete gulps, reaching for the papers then snatching his hand back when he sees his fingers shake, "I don't think - I'd rather not, thank you." He pushes the pen away and breathes a trembling breath, but meets Wan's eyes all the same.

She purses her lips. "Mr. Wentz, I'd urge you to take this offer. Because," she continues, but with a sharper edge, this time, "if you were to return home - which you are at perfect liberty to do - and be, uh,  _uncooperative_ , then we may become less sympathetic towards you and your crimes. The bottom line is, Wentz, that you took something very valuable and you hid it from us, giving us ample grounds to make life very difficult for you. Consider your options carefully; if you challenge us, lawyer, you can be certain that you will lose."

This is her way of saying Pete has no choice at all in this matter. "Okay," is all he can say, and not crying is suddenly a much bigger challenge than it was ten minutes ago. "Just - where am I? Who are you?" They don't have wings, these creatures, these...angels? but they're still looking at him as if he's some foreign life-form.

Wan gives a tight smile, and the other woman snorts slightly. It's the only sound she's made so far. "You're out of your depth. And we're different to you. Hurley will brief you when we've carried out the preliminaries," Wan says. Pete wonders if Patrick felt this terrified when he first arrived on Earth, then stops wondering when he feels a flicker of anxious longing. He lacks Patrick's skill of shouting at someone until they say things he understands.

The woman pushes the papers further towards him. Pete wants to throw up; he tries to blink the tears away but they just end up falling down his face and making him look even more pathetic. If he's a representative of humanity, he's doing a piss-poor job.

He signs the papers, in the end, trying to read them over thoroughly but rushed by the three intense stares and his own panic. Wan takes them with a smile and snaps the briefcase shut, and for a moment, Pete thinks he might be allowed to leave this cell of a room, but then the other woman sits forward, and her glare does nothing at all to steady the flow of tears.

"My name is White," she says acidly, like she resents even that fact. "I'm going to ask you a few questions about Patrick."

It's a relief, somehow, to hear somebody refer to Patrick by his name rather than as some kind of possession, but the way she spits it suggests she'd much rather call him something less polite. It was her name that had made Patrick stop dead, and Pete's hatred of her grows as he imagines all the things she might have done to hurt Patrick.

He answers the questions nonetheless, and there are more than a few. The questions about Patrick's sleeping habits seem innocent enough, but then it's the details of their first kiss that she wants, the extent to which they've been intimate, and it feels a little like a betrayal.  He talks until Wan finally waves a hand, and White ceases her interrogation. When she finally leaves, though, there's a glint in her eyes like this isn't over just yet.

Wan smiles at him like she's trying to make him feel better, but all it really makes him feel is more pathetic. They wait for him to wipe his eyes, then gesture for him to stand up. He lets them guide him out of the room without protest.

Now that he's fully conscious, he takes in his surroundings properly as they emerge into a brightly lit corridor. Everything is white, blindingly so, the polished tiles throwing back Pete's own reflection.

"We'll show you to your room," Wan says, touching a hand to his back and making him flinch forward. Franklin walks ahead of him, and Pete shuffles after.

"Are you angels?" Pete blurts, "Where are your wings?"

"That's classified," she says easily, "you'll be fully briefed when Hurley sees fit."

In Pete's mind, it sounds like a  _yes._ As for the wings, Pete dreads to think. Perhaps that's why Patrick wanted to leave so badly. "Where's Patrick?" he asks again, feeling his missing spine begin to reappear.

"I'd advise you to stop asking that," she responds, "his is not a side that you will benefit from being on."

Pete has no idea what  _that_ means; it's phrased like a fact but feels like a threat, and Pete becomes aware of the gun in Franklin's belt again. He wonders if the man's ever actually used it to hurt someone. They turn a corner, passing grey door after grey door, with no windows for Pete to peek through. Perhaps they're farming souls in there, perhaps the only afterlife there is is the few seconds before incineration.

"This is your room," Wan states when they come to an abrupt stop outside yet another door. Franklin pushes it open, then pushes Pete inside.

Hospital is the first thing that springs to mind when he sees the room; it's cell-sized, with the same head-splitting white walls of the corridors, and a spindly metal bed pushed up against the far wall. An equally spidery table perches next to it, and a second door gives Pete a narrow view of a dark bathroom. It's all a little surreal.

"We can get you more furniture - wardrobes, cabinets - if you need it," the woman continues, "and we'll fetch everything you might need from your home."

Pete feels a little sick at the thought of these people sifting through his stuff, but, just like everything else, he doesn't suppose he has much of a choice. He stands awkwardly at the edge of the room, hands firmly wrapped inside the sleeves of his jumper. "Uh, thanks," he mumbles, scuffing his shoeless feet on the floor.

There's a painful silence as Wan apparently waits for Pete to do or say something more, but Pete simply stares down at his dismal reflection in the floor and wonders how he could possibly have ended up in this situation.

"So, would you like some time to settle in, or would you like Franklin to show you around?" Wan says once her patience wears thin. Pete meets Franklin's dull eyes for a terrifying few seconds and thinks his mind's made up, but then he looks back at the room and realises he can't spend another second in it without vomiting. Somehow touching anything would make all this far too real.

He takes the tour instead. There's very few rooms he's actually allowed in; a sort of common room, an open space with tables and chairs and bookshelves that he doesn't get a close enough look at, an office belonging to the elusive Hurley who will apparently deal with any problems, and a tiny 'kitchen' space, with no fridge or oven or toaster or other food-preparation unit. Pete wonders what angels might eat; he doubts he'll have access to Shreddies while he's here.

By the time he's being led back to his room, he's really none the wiser. He's gleaned that everything is on one level, all the corridors make him feel like he's been dropped into the set of  _The Shining,_ and all the rooms need a more imaginative colour scheme.

Pete's been waiting for Franklin to say something so he can unleash all his questions upon the man without seeming weird, but it seems the Schwarzenegger-doppelgänger's spoken word rate is less than four per hour, and Pete's shakes are reaching critical.

"So - so I'm employed here now?" he says with a smile, like it's a joke, like it's colleague banter and he's not utterly terrified.

"Yes," Franklin grunts, and fails to expand.

"So, what kind of stuff am I supposed to do?"

Franklin doesn't even look at him, just keeps striding ahead. "You'll be briefed."

Great. "Why'd they want to know all that stuff about Patrick?" Pete persists, beginning to feel a little childish in his socks, hurrying to keep up with Franklin the half-giant.

" _You'll be briefed,"_ he repeats, with a short sigh this time to indicate his dwindling fuse.

"When?" Pete snaps as loud as he dares, trying to replicate Patrick's trademark glare. He thinks he does pretty well until Franklin stops in his tracks and turns to face Pete.

"Listen, kid," he growls, and Pete's confidence gives up on him and scurries out of the hole in his sock, "I'll give you some advice: don't ask questions. Do what you're told. Keep your head down, and you'll be out of here in no time. As for Patrick, don't get close to him, it won't help you."

Pete stares at the man for a few seconds, taking in the lines on his face and the weariness in his eyes, then stutters out an "Okay." Something feels so incredibly off about this place, it's crawling under Pete's skin, the way Patrick's name is banded around like a virus, the warnings about forming a relationship with him.

"Soon, you'll understand," Franklin says, almost gently, and perhaps he thinks it'll reassure Pete but really all it does is remind him of the shitstorm in his brain. They begin walking again, slower than before.

"Pete!" A voice rings out all of a sudden, bouncing round the hallways and punctuated with footsteps hammering into the floor. Pete whips around just as Patrick skids into view, his wings spread wide, heavenly-vision style. He's not wearing white, but it's close enough to keep Pete staring as the boy hurtles towards him, lighter on his feet than Pete would've expected, and fast enough to seem not entirely natural. There's a flash of black behind Patrick, and Pete barely registers the fact that he's being chased before Franklin's shoving him out of the way.

Sudden contact with the wall makes his vision spin, but he still sees Franklin grab Patrick by the shoulders and attempt to contain him; then there's a shrill shout and a grunt of pain and Franklin's letting go of the boy, whose snarls echo through the corridors. Then Patrick's flying at Pete, and it's all Pete can do to stop himself flinching away from him.

"Pete," Patrick says again, throwing his arms around Pete and squeezing tight. Pete thinks about pushing him away, shouting him down, asking him to explain exactly what's going on, but then Patrick's wings close around them both and the boy nuzzles his nose into Pete's neck and Pete forgets whatever he's angry about and melts into it, his hands squeezing Patrick's soft middle and feeling feathers brush his fingers.

Then it's over, because Patrick's being pulled away by Franklin and whoever was chasing him, their hands clamping around his arms. There's no fear on the boy's face, though, as he turns and smacks his fist into Franklin's face and shoves the other guard - Johnson, perhaps? - hard into the opposite wall. It all feels very familiar as Patrick stands steadfast in front of Pete, breathing hard.

"Did they hurt you?" Patrick asks, turning to meet Pete's gaze, "tell me they didn't hurt you." He seems more panicked now than when he was being chased, more panicked than when a gun was being held to his face, and Pete shakes his head as quick as he can just to wipe the distress from Patrick's eyes.

"Patrick," Franklin growls, hand on his gun, "step away."

"Get fucked," the boy says easily, his wing bones pressing into Pete's chest.

"Brat," the other guard spits, but it's empty and he makes no move to attack again.

"Patrick!" A voice calls, and Pete looks to see another man in a white coat hurrying down the corridor, "what do you think you're playing at?! Get back here!"

Patrick acknowledges the man with a glance, but his fingers brush Pete's hand and Pete clasps them on instinct. It's strange how Patrick could ever have seemed foreign to Pete; in this context, he's blissfully familiar. Pete's missed his constant expletives.

"What's going on?" Pete whispers as the man approaches punching distance.

"That's Andy," Patrick responds, gesturing to him. He's in his forties, maybe, with short, brown hair and the beginnings of a goatee. He wears glasses and a tight frown, his gaze flicking between Pete and Patrick.  _So that's the famous Andy,_ Pete thinks.  _Can he really be God?_

"This isn't helpful, Patrick," he says sternly, coming to a halt a few feet away. Pete tries not to think too much of the fact that none of these grown, armed men have remained within touching distance of Patrick. "White's waiting."

"I don't care," the boy spits, "I'm staying with Pete."

Andy sighs, shaking his head. "No, you're not. You're coming with me and you're  _not_ going to cause trouble, remember?" It's steeped in insinuation, and Pete wonders what kind of conversations Patrick might have gone through before all this.

The boy turns to look at Pete, a hand clasping at his forearm. "They said you were crying, Pete, was that true?"

Pete tries to pretend there aren't three other people judging him when he nods. Come to think of it, Patrick looks a little teary himself; blue eyes tinged with red and lips bitten raw. He looks even worse as he registers Pete's affirmation.

"Patrick -" Franklin tries, but Patrick's already talking over him.

"- away from him, just leave him the fuck alone! I'm not letting White near him, or anyone, you're not going to touch him!" he cries, backing closer to Pete.

"No, Patrick, I'm fine, I promise-" Pete starts to say, swallowed up by the ensuing responses.

"- _furious!_ " Andy asserts loudly, just shy of yelling, "you  _know_ what she'll do, Patrick! You  _know!_ And if you cross her again, she won't just hurt you, she'll hurt-"

"Don't you  _dare_ say Pete! I'll kill her, I'll rip her to fucking  _pieces_  before she touches him, I fucking _swear!_ " Patrick shouts, but the guards are creeping closer and there's a crack in his voice. Pete shrinks back against the wall.

"Patrick!" Andy bellows, like thunder, and Pete feels the boy flinch. Everything goes strangely still.

"First," he continues with a sigh, "make a threat like that again, and you won't be seeing Pete for a week."

"But-"

" _No._ Second, language like that will not be tolerated. I assume this is your influence?" he asks, and then he looks at  _Pete,_ who feels a chill over him and loses the ability to speak.

"No - uh, not at all sir, he came like that, I didn't -"

"Of course," Andy says with an eye roll, "it's his own fault, as always. And third, Patrick, you will come with me now, because White is waiting, and if you aren't on that table in five minutes, you know full well what she will do to you. Or worse, to Pete."

Patrick stops breathing at that. Pete watches what he can see of the boy's face, the way his mouth remains shut and his jaw locked but his eyes flash with fear. Pete wonders what in the known universe could possibly scare  _Patrick,_ the angelic volcano, then abruptly doesn't want to think about it.

"You heard him, feathers," the guard interjects, a smirk smeared over his mousy face. "Do as you're told, or your little boyfriend helps decorate the walls." He taps his gun, then points two fingers straight at Pete.

Pete swears he feels the moment Patrick gives in. His wings slump a little, and so do his shoulders, but he stays put to ask, "Can I still see him later?"

Andy's eyes narrow, but he nods after a few seconds pause. "Fine. But you'd better be on your best behaviour, alright?"

"Okay," Patrick says quietly, but he ignores Andy's beckoning finger and Pete finds himself being hugged again, gentler this time, but with no less conviction. "Don't let them hurt you," the boy mumbles against Pete's shoulder. Someone, probably that Johnson guy, says  _fags,_ but Patrick doesn't seem to have the energy to punch him and Pete lacks the guts.

"Where are you going?" Pete asks when Patrick pulls away, but Patrick avoids Pete's eyes and gives Pete's hand a gentle squeeze before he lets go. "Patrick?"

"None of your business," Johnson smirks as Andy takes the boy by the wrist and drags him back down the corridor, muttering things Pete can't quite hear. "Just a quick trip to the butcher's."

With that, he stalks off after them, and Pete decides that the man has secured a place on Pete's seldom-used people-to-hate list. He stares until Patrick's folded wings disappear around the corner.

"Right," Franklin says heavily, placing a hand on Pete's shoulder. There's a shiny red patch on his cheek where Patrick hit him, but no blood. Pete's oddly relieved. "Let's get you back to your room."

"Where are they taking him?" Pete asks, glancing back down the corridor. The kitchen was back that way, and Andy mentioned something about a table, perhaps a meal?  _Dinner table,_ he tells himself,  _dinner table._ Not  _operating table._ Please, not operating table.

Franklin doesn't reply, but there's a graveness in his eyes that Pete hates the look of. He doesn't ask any more questions.

-

Pete sits quietly in his room for a long time. It's a horrible place, blank and cold and hostile, but it's clean and he's alone, finally. He has yet to decide whether this is beneficial or not.

He cries a little more, curled up on the bed, then goes to the bathroom. He wonders where the water goes, where they get it from. He wonders how this is all possible, and when he can call his mum.  _If_ he can call his mum.  _God,_ he wants his mum.

That's another thing. He found out from Franklin that Andy, Hurley to everyone but Patrick, is his supervisor. Franklin didn't say yes when Pete asked if Andy really was God, but he didn't say no, either. And Pete's not about to take any chances.

He stares at the clock on the wall long enough to begin contemplating his sanity, wondering whether humans stole their system of time from these beings, or the other way around. When it hits five o'clock, Franklin knocks on the door and tells him that if he'd like to see Patrick, he should come now.

And of course he wants to see Patrick, Pete tells himself, they're supposed to be dating, somehow, they're supposed to be getting to know one another. He pushes back the feeling that maybe he doesn't want to know more about Patrick's past; he spent so long pondering over it, and now he's scared of finding out the truth. And he's a little scared of Patrick, too.

Maybe it was the carelessness with which he fired a gun in Pete's house, maybe it was the punching, or the hissing, oh  _God_ the hissing. It sounded like paper being torn, or a match being struck, the type of sound Pete's only familiar with through wildlife documentaries. He hopes he never hears it again. But he's scared he will. He's scared that beneath all this, there's someone even worse than the temperamental tramp.

There's something different, though, when Franklin pushes open yet another grey door, and Patrick appears to pull Pete into yet another hug. There's something off, something dimming Patrick's hundred-watt smile, something dulling his eyes. When they break apart, Patrick's hands remain curled in Pete's jumper, a wing draped around them both.

"What's the matter?" Pete asks, patting the small of Patrick's back, "Where did you go?"

The boy simply shakes his head, his face hidden in the crook of Pete's neck.

"We had urgent business to attend to," Andy's voice sounds from across the room. He's sitting at a desk littered with papers, eyes trained on them both. "Come, Patrick, stop sulking, Pete won't be here long."

With a short sigh, Patrick pulls away, avoiding Pete's eyes but taking his hand gently. Pete watches him for a few seconds, trying to work out what's going on in his head, but gives up in favour of working out where he is now. It's a bedroom, like Pete's but slightly bigger, and with more signs of Patrick. The lampshade has drawings all over it, there's a bookshelf next to the bed, and the walls are covered with pieces of paper, not posters or pictures but numbers, formulae. Pete thinks he recognises the quadratic formula, but that's about it.

"You like maths?" he asks softly, still staring around at the room.

Pete looks back just in time to see Patrick nod. "Is that weird?" the boy asks suddenly, wide eyes trained on Pete.

"Yeah," Pete laughs, then drops his smile at the hurt on Patrick's face. "I mean - it's weird to me 'cause I hate maths, I was always awful at it, I guess. But it's cool, though, everyone's got stuff they're into."

"Okay," Patrick nods, smiling a little. "Um. So this is my room."

"Yeah, I figured," Pete says, then feels like an asshole for putting it like that and squeezes Patrick's hand in apology. Patrick simply squeezes back and leads Pete over to the bed.

"Do you have a room?" Patrick asks as they sit down, "did they treat you okay?"

"Uh," Pete starts, deciding that telling Patrick about the head smashing and the forced contract and the interrogation and the tears probably isn't the best idea. "Yeah, I guess so. I've got a bedroom, and they're gonna get some of my stuff, I think?"

"Okay," Patrick says again, "okay. That's good."

Pete's hand fidgets in Patrick's as the atmosphere descends into awkward; Andy doesn't look up from his papers, but Pete has the feeling he's listening. Pete glances at Patrick every few seconds, watches how Patrick chews his lip and frowns at the floor, sees the small white plasters on his arm and the back of his hand. He's in a t-shirt, and it makes his halo stand out painfully in the white light. Pete feels a want to cover it up, to hide it from whoever made him learn never to let people touch it.

When Pete sees the shine of tears in the boy's eyes, he decides this has gone on too long. "Patrick, what's going on? Where are we, why am I here? I'm so confused, Patrick, please," Pete says, just short of begging.

Patrick pulls both his feet up onto the bed and holds Pete's hand in his lap. "This - this is where I live."

Pete considers the white walls, the bare minimum of furniture, the blankness of it all. "Your whole life? You've been in this place? No, like, outings or anything?"

The boy shakes his head. "No. Just here."

"Where are we, then? Is this another world, is this heaven?"

"I told you, it's not - heaven. It's not," Patrick huffs, glaring at Pete's hand like it wronged him.

"Then where are we?!" Pete near-cries, trying to look Patrick in the eyes and failing.

"I don't know, it's just home, okay!" Patrick retorts, his voice wavering.

"Why do they want  _me_ , then?!"

"I don't  _know,_ Pete, I don't fu- I don't know why they brought you here, you shouldn't be here!" Patrick turns his scowl to Pete as if any of this is his fault.

And Pete won't have that, no thank you. "Oh, yeah, 'cause I asked for it alright, I  _really_ wanted my head cracked against a wall-"

"That's not what I meant! I don't want them to hurt you, they can't-"

"Well they  _have,_ Patrick, this whole situation has screwed me up so bad, no-one's telling me where the hell I am, no-one's telling me why I'm here, and no-one's telling me when exactly I'm gonna get out! Who are these people? Is everyone here a freak like you?!"

 _Now_ Patrick looks at him. His expression boils, and he shoves Pete's hand away.  _"Fuck_  you."

Pete watches as Patrick scrambles away from him and wraps himself in his wings, hiding his face, and realises too late that he might have gone too far. "I - I'm sorry," he says pathetically, "you're not a freak."

"Then why the fuck did you fucking say I am?" Patrick mumbles, curling himself up tighter.

" _Language,_ Patrick," Andy calls from across the room. Patrick only huffs in response.

Shuffling closer to the ball of white fluff, Pete reaches out and touches his fingers to Patrick's feathers, stroking as gently as he can. How soft they are still floors him a little. "Well - by freak, I meant...y'know, unique. I mean, you're the best kind of freaky. No-one else here has wings, right?"

Patrick shakes his head, and Pete takes this as his cue to wrap his arms as far around the feathers as they can reach. "You know I think you're kind of amazing, don't you?" Pete continues, figuring sweet-talk might lead him to some answers.

He knows he's forgiven when Patrick leans into the hug, lets Pete sneak a hand round his waist and kiss him lightly on the head. The boy's warm, as always, and Pete's reminded of waking up in his arms, of feeling more at peace than he had in a long while.  _Can that really only have been this morning?_

"Patrick," Pete starts, taking a softer approach this time, "what did they do to you?"

The boy just shakes his head again, and the wing that isn't trapped between them moves to cover his body.

"Did they hurt you?"

The silence is as good a confirmation as any.

"How did they hurt you?" Pete asks quietly. Anything above a whisper might scare Patrick off.

"I'm fine," the boy says, far too late. "It's nothing - I've had worse."

"Show me."

"No."

" _Please,_ Patrick." Somehow, Pete thinks this will help him understand everything.

Patrick's hands twitch in his lap, and finally, they reach for the hem of his shirt. All Pete sees at first is skin and gauze, until Patrick picks at a corner of the dressing and pulls it back to reveal a neat row of stitches stretching along the top of his belly, a seething red cut straining against them. Pete doesn't realise he's been holding his breath until he feels a lightness in his skull.  _Operating_ table.

"It's nothing," Patrick says again, smoothing the gauze back over the wound and pulling his t-shirt down.

"Oh my God,  _Patrick,"_ Pete finally manages to say, "what - why did they do that to you?"

The boy just shrugs. "Always have. I'm different, or something."

"But that cut's  _huge,_ why - wait, you've had  _worse?!"_ Pete exclaims. Seeing what they did hasn't helped Pete understand anything at all; now he's even more panicked. "Is that what they do here, they - cut you up, and stuff, what the  _hell,_ Patrick?! What else have they done?"

But Patrick's face has returned to its baseline frown, and he's gone awfully still in Pete's arms. "I don't want to talk about it," he says quietly.

That makes Pete angry. "No, no, Patrick, you have to tell me what they've done,  _exactly_ what they've done, so I can make a list and - and formulate allegations-"

"Mr. Wentz," Andy says, and Pete looks up to see the man's cold, grey eyes focussed solely upon him, "you'll be briefed in five days' time. If you could refrain from suing us until then, that would be very much appreciated."

Pete opens his mouth to reply, but the way Andy raises his eyebrows and sits back in his chair reminds him that the man is technically his boss, that these people have power of life or death over him, that his precious law system may not even apply in this place. Instead, he turns his attention to Patrick, who's gone strangely quiet. "Does it hurt?"

"No," Patrick says indignantly, as if the assumption that he can feel pain is thoroughly offensive to him.

Pete doesn't call him on it, though, even if the hurt is written all over his face. He just takes Patrick's wing and guides it out of the way, so it sits around Pete's shoulders too, so Pete can put his arms around Patrick properly. He's careful to avoid the stitches, but strokes his thumb over the fold of Patrick's belly, hoping it might be enough to make the kid purr. The sound doesn't quite forgive Patrick of the growling and the hissing, but it's a start.

"I'm glad you're here," Patrick says suddenly, after ten minutes of purrless silence. "I know you're not supposed to be here - you  _shouldn't_ be here, but - I'm glad you are. Is - is that selfish?" he asks, shifting his head from where it's nestled in Pete's shoulder.

"No - I mean, I'm kinda not glad I'm here, but - but I'm glad you're here with me," Pete tries, trying to convince himself it's true.

Patrick's obviously convinced, though, and he smiles, wide and genuine. Pete doesn't know if this makes him feel better or worse.

He kisses Patrick then, just to give him something less empty than words, and Patrick kisses back like it's his last act. For a few moments, Pete lets himself revel in how responsive Patrick is, how his hands fly to cup Pete's face and his body wriggles impossibly closer, how this kind of reaction is what Pete's been chasing after for whatever growing number of lonely years it is now. Patrick's lips are soft, and so is his skin, so is his stomach and his thighs and the nuzzle of flesh beneath his jaw, and between this and the way Patrick's pulling gently on the hair at the base of Pete's neck, Pete really has no motivation to stop whatsoever-

"Patrick!" Andy's voice snaps them both out of it, and they pull apart quickly. "Enough."

Pete feels the growl before he hears it, rumbling through Patrick's body before ripping through his lips. "Why?" he snarls, and Pete flinches.

"That kind of behaviour is not appropriate," Andy replies. Pete wonders if the man's originally from the 18th century, or if he just took a trip there and picked up some of the language. "And you know what White said," he sniffs, and looks back at his papers.

Patrick's face falls at that, and he slumps against Pete. White had been pretty intimidating, sure, but the amount of fear she seems to strike in Patrick makes Pete wonder exactly who sliced open the kid's stomach. Pete dives in an pecks Patrick on the lips as a small act of rebellion, and Patrick smiles like he knows.

 

 

"Mr. Wentz," Andy says to him later on, when he's being led away from Patrick and back to his bedroom, "this will all make sense soon. I'm sorry about the confusion." Pete was allowed to hug Patrick goodnight when he left, and a maximum of one kiss on the cheek. Patrick told him to sleep well and to fucking kill any fucking dickheads who try to fucking hurt him.

"Okay," Pete nods, because what else can he say? It's not even eight o'clock and he's being shepherded into his bedroom by a man who might possibly be the almighty God.

"Dinner will be delivered to you soon. I apologise for the tardiness, it's been a difficult day for everyone." Andy says, and it's only then that Pete realises how horrifically hungry he is. And woozy. He didn't take his pills this morning.

He's almost glad when they reach his bedroom; he needs time to think, time to recalibrate his brain. He needs sleep, more than most things. He turns to wish Andy goodnight, but the man speaks before Pete forms the words. 

"He's not what you think he is," Andy says suddenly. "You won't get what you want."

Pete nods, slowly so as not to spill the brain full of thoughts he's been carrying around, and adds Andy's words to the pool of things to think about. 

"He thinks he loves you, you know."

Pete nods, because he does know. He's just not quite sure how it makes him feel yet. 


	16. Even Your Dick Tastes Better Than These Circumstances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the wait, I blazed through the first half of this and then realised that oh yes! this is the bit I didn't plan at all. Thanks for that, past self. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your lovely comments, they keep my crops healthy and my skin clear. I'd love to know your thoughts on this chapter! 
> 
> p.s. Important chapter next time. 
> 
> p.p.s. sorry, patrick. I'd say it'll get better, but I'd be lying.

Patrick is running. He puts everything into every step, his body burning and his mind fuming along with it.

He's always been angry, ever since he can remember, he's always had feelings he doesn't know how to express without breaking something. Other people have words that he doesn't, other people can explain and reason and mediate, but Patrick doesn't  _understand,_ has never understood, has never been able to articulate himself well enough to get people to listen to him. They never fucking  _listen_.

They try to stop the anger; they tried shouting it out of him when he was little, when he'd scream the walls down without really knowing what he was screaming about, they tried taking away his books and his paper, they tried beating it out of him, over and over and only stopping for fear they might kill him. Nothing worked, until now.

It hurts more than the beatings, more than anything they've done to him on that table. It hurts more than the sharp pains in his stomach as he strains the stitches, more than the deep ache in his muscles as he runs faster and further than his body can really take. The fact that they're using  _Pete_ , his  _special_ fucking  _person,_ against him, making threats and pointing fingers and taking him away from Patrick makes him want to snarl and hiss and scream. Because it works so damn well.

He's only allowed to see Pete in short intervals, under strict supervision from Andy, or worse, White, who doesn't allow them within fucking eight inches of each other, and if he refuses to comply with their fucking schedule, White likes to describe in intricate detail what exactly she might do to Pete. And there's no way in heaven, hell or anywhere in between that Patrick will let her near Pete. So he's left with no choice. And he's so, so angry.

He keeps running. He slams his feet down with as much force as he can muster, as fast as he can, sweat pooling under his arms and at his hairline, shimmering on his chest. Each step is a scream, each breath a crack of knuckles against bone.

"Okay, stop," White says, clicking her timer and waving it in front of Patrick as the treadmill slows. Patrick stumbles off the machine and slumps against the wall, chest heaving. He wants this to be over as soon as possible; Andy said Pete might join them for breakfast.

"You've beaten your personal best," White muses at her clipboard, "impressive, seeing as you gained eight pounds since your last run." He sees her smirk and resists the temptation to both smack her in the mouth or move his wings to cover his torso. Either would mean giving in.

Next is a shower - he hates that he knows this, hates how the routine still lingers on him like mould – and White spares him no privacy. It's a punishment, a reminder of how he's broken their trust,  _act like a child, be treated like a_ fucking  _child,_ but even when he was young, she wouldn't bring three of her doting apprentices and they wouldn't  _stare_ like they do now. He tries his utmost not to let it bother him; fights the urge to hide his body, doesn't even slam White's head into the tiles when she insists upon washing his hair like he's some sort of invalid.

She watches him shake the water out of his feathers, she watches him struggle with the buttons of his shirt, she watches him shave steadfastly around his sideburns, tutting every so often. When he finally sits down at the table, breakfast in hand, she's there, with her fucking clipboard and her fucking superiority. He stares at his plate until the door opens, and Andy leads Pete into the room.

Patrick gets up automatically, reaching his hands towards Pete and lifting his head to touch him, to kiss him.

"Sit  _down,"_ White barks, and Patrick starts, drawing his hands back and flinging a glare towards her. Pete seems utterly stricken; he barely looks at Patrick as he sits down, and Patrick's left standing over him, still expectant of a hug. He retreats to his chair.

"Did you sleep okay?" Patrick asks quietly as he watches Pete stare down at the grey lump of his breakfast.

Pete looks up, alarm spreading across his face as if Patrick had shouted, then shrugs noncommittally. "Alright, I guess. What even is this?" he asks, prodding at the food on his plate.

Patrick doesn't really blame Pete for the look of disgust that twists his mouth down at the edges; if he himself had grown up with chocolate and pineapple and ice cream, he'd have high expectations too. "It's, like, vitamins and stuff," Patrick says between mouthfuls, shovelling it down as hunger gets the better of him. It tastes of cold and dust, but Patrick's not about to starve himself for the sake of flavour.

Pete obviously lacks this particular philosophy, as he barely touches the food, just stabs his fork into it until it's disfigured beyond repair.

"You should eat something," Patrick says, because Pete's thin enough without skipping meals. Pete just nods, silent.

Patrick doesn't give him a slap, because that's not what special people do, and Pete's obviously been threatened in some way by White or Andy or Franklin or fucking Johnson, but part of him  _wants_ to; this is what they want, they want Pete quiet and passive and conversationally useless so they can do whatever the fuck they want with him.

Andy and White look on, and Patrick can just  _feel_ their ridicule, their mocking eyes as they watch Patrick try to prove that another, actual person likes him, wants to talk to him. He thought he could show them that he's worthy of friendship, of  _love,_ maybe, but Pete's not showing either towards him, and Patrick feels heat in his face as he remembers the way he shouted at White, insisting that Pete loves him, that Pete cares about him.

"Okay, time's up," she says, once it's clear Pete isn't going to eat any of the mess on his plate.

Pete gets to his feet with a sigh, and Patrick jumps up, because he has to hug Pete, he  _has_ to.

"Did I say you could stand?" White snaps, stepping towards him with an eyebrow raised.

Of course she didn't, but she can get fucked if she thinks Patrick's scared of the consequences. He walks around the table, and she pounces, cracking him round the head with her clipboard. Pain bursts through the back of his skull and Patrick nearly laughs because it's nothing, it's nothing at all compared to everything else.

"Sit  _down,"_ she hisses, and he hisses back, baring his teeth and feeling the sound sear across his tongue. He already knows it's a mistake.

There's pain again, bright white pain across his whole body, digging its fingers into his eyes and pulling until his head's empty but for the fire charring his insides. He feels himself falling, and doesn't have the capacity to care.

The impact never comes; there's hands under his arms, hauling him back up as the pain fades and his vision returns. "- not supposed to touch it!" Pete says over his shoulder, and it occurs to him that Pete's talking to White – to  _White –_ in defence of Patrick. Pete gives him a squeeze before looking him straight in the eyes and brushing his hand across Patrick's cheek. "Are you alright?"

The pain is replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling as he looks at Pete's lovely, kind face. He can feel the warmth of Pete's body against his own and huddles towards it, his hands curling in Pete's jumper. Patrick nods, even though there's still a stinging sensation running up and down his arm; White really  _really_ meant that. She hates the hissing almost as much as Patrick hates her, and the more hatred in the touch, the more pain. It makes Patrick wonder what might happen if Pete,  _this_ Pete, touched his halo instead.

This Pete suddenly leans forward and presses his lips to Patrick's in the first proper kiss they've had since the first night, and Patrick's heart nearly jumps out of his chest; he surges towards Pete, kissing back as if – well, as if they only have a few seconds before somebody –

"That's  _enough,"_ White murmurs, and Pete's pulled away from Patrick as White grabs him by the arm and drags him towards the door.

"Hey!" Patrick yelps, reaching out for Pete, fully prepared to take White down, when he catches Andy's eye. The man shakes his head quickly, and Patrick wouldn't usually take notice, but there's something grave in Andy's eyes that makes Patrick hesitate to push White any further.

"– but you're not supposed to touch it," Pete's saying, "it's not just some piece of metal, it's – "

"I know full well what it is, Wentz," she snaps as she yanks the door open, "Franklin? Take him to his room." The man appears instantaneously, nods, and marches Pete away.

When White turns to face Patrick, her face reminds Patrick of the storm clouds over London. She strides up to him and grips his jaw tightly, her fingernails digging into his skin.

"Don't you _ever_ hiss at me again, you  _disgusting animal._ You best make the most of Wentz, before he finds out what a repulsive creature you really are," she says, flicking saliva into Patrick's face.

Patrick looks into her washed-out blue eyes, and smiles his sunniest grin, because the man he loves just kissed him and the buzzing hasn't quite subsided yet. At that, White just huffs, dropping her hand before slamming her coiled fist across his face. It hurts, but it's nothing. She stalks out of the room.

-

"I don't know why you're so pleased with yourself," Andy says for the hundredth time that afternoon, when a ripe bruise is blossoming across Patrick's cheek but the smile hasn't quite faded from his features. "Things will only get worse for you if you keep pushing her like that."

Patrick thoroughly disagrees; if he  _doesn't_ push her, then what happens? She gets complacent, he gets used, and he won't even be able to say he fucking fought back. He decides not to merit Andy's grumblings with a response, and focuses on the maths in front of him. Or tries to, anyway. He keeps getting distracted by thoughts of Pete. Pete's eyes, Pete's laugh, Pete's mouth. The Riemann hypothesis becomes less and less appealing.

He's so close to fucking proving it, he's nurtured these equations for so long, tweaked his inequalities to perfection  _and_  managed to refrain from finding Riemann and beating him and his fucking zeta function to a pulp. But he's been locked in his room for so long, with no lunch and nothing to do but stare at the numbers swimming in front of his eyes.

"Pete's got a really nice smile," Patrick says suddenly, when just thinking about Pete isn't enough anymore. "He's beautiful when he smiles – I mean, he's beautiful  _all_ the time, but, like – e _specially_ when he smiles. And when, like, I'm with him, everything is just – better. And – oh, Andy, you  _have_ to try kissing, it feels so – "

"Focus, Patrick," Andy warns from his desk in the corner.

"But I  _can't,_ this is fucking  _stupid,_ when can I see him again?" Patrick whines, dropping his pen on the table and shoving the papers away from him.

" _Don't_ swear, and don't act like this is beyond you," Andy snaps, and he's got a point. It's not that non-trivial zeroes don't excite Patrick to the point of self-consciousness, it's just  _Pete. "_ I don't know when you'll be allowed to see him. Whenever White's feeling generous."

So,  _never,_ basically. Patrick puffs out his feathers and buries his face in his hands. Stupid Riemann.

"Patrick," Andy says, gentler this time. He's actually looking at Patrick too, so whatever this is going to be about, it might be in his interests to listen. "I know you like Pete – "

"I  _love_ him,  _dickhead,"_ Patrick says forcefully, sensing where this might be going.

"Well, yes, but just remember that relationships can be – complicated, and you haven't had much experience – "

"Whose fucking fault is that?"

"All I'm  _saying_ is, don't, you know, get your hopes up too much. Love isn't always the kindest thing, Patrick."

For the second time that day, Patrick thoroughly disagrees with Andy, because his hopes are higher than they've been in his life, and Pete's been kinder to him than anyone else ever has. Andy thinks it'll go nowhere, but Andy doesn't know that Patrick is going to get himself and Pete out if it kills him. It'll be more difficult than last time - they've upped security since then, and Patrick also suspects they've hidden the cleaning products – but he'll do it. He has to get back there; he needs music, and food, and cats and –  _Sam,_ fucking hell he misses Sam.

He spends the remainder of the afternoon drawing Pete's tattoos all over the paper.

-

He doesn't see Pete for three days.

No matter how loud he yells at Andy for answers, no matter how forcefully he demands to know where Pete is and what they've done with him, he remains clueless, plagued by sleepless nights and fretful days. What if they hurt him? What if they  _kill_ him?

On the fourth evening, Andy finally cracks.

He doesn't say anything, just takes Patrick by the wrist and leads him through the winding corridors. Patrick thinks, for a terrifying second, that he's being taken to solitary again, to be starved or beaten or left to watch his sanity unravel in the silence, but they stop outside a room,  _Pete's_ room, and Patrick can do nothing but stare in wonder at Andy as he opens the door to reveal a startled looking Pete sitting on the bed in the corner.

 _He's okay,_ Patrick thinks as he takes in Pete's scar-less face and unbandaged body. He starts towards him, but Andy's hand remains firmly around his wrist.

"Fifteen minutes  _maximum,_ okay? Don't tell White," he adds with a wink, releasing Patrick before backing out of the room and closing the door behind him. Patrick spends a few seconds gaping after him, then remembers where he is and bounds over to the bed, wrapping his arms around Pete and breathing in his scent.

"Patrick," Pete says into his ear, and Patrick feels Pete's arms wind around his waist and his lips move against Patrick's jaw. It's as if whoever's had their hands around his throat has finally let go. Patrick's wings flutter of their own accord and he covers Pete with them, squeezing him gently. His heart lifts when Pete giggles.

"We don't have much time," Patrick breathes when they pull back from each other, faces close and knees touching where they're folded on the bed. The book Pete must have been reading lies strewn to the side, and Patrick pushes down the questions that bubble to the surface of his brain.  _He's_ not allowed books like that.

"Where've you been?" Pete asks, "What've they done to you this time?"

" _Nothing,"_ Patrick snaps, carefully  _not_ thinking about the stinging stitches in his chest from yesterday. They'll heal, just like the cut in his stomach has. "They just stopped me from seeing you after-"

"Because of what I said?" Pete says suddenly, worry flashing in his eyes, "Oh God, did I make trouble for you? I'm so sorry, Patrick, I only wanted to make sure you were okay, I didn't think-"

Patrick shuts up Pete's stupid ramblings by kissing him hard, his hands moving to cup Pete's face. He'd forgotten quite how good it feels. A tingle runs down his spine as Pete's fingers trail down his hips and squeeze them gently, fingertips brushing the small strip of skin between Patrick's shirt and his trousers.

"Are – are you okay?" Pete stammers between kisses, "They – they said I couldn't see you."

"I'm fine," Patrick manages to gasp, "White was just – being a fucking bitch. Did they – hurt you?"

To Patrick's relief, Pete shakes his head. "Just asked me questions," he says as Patrick tries to slide a hand under his shirt. He's wearing his clothes from Earth, which is strange, but there's no time for questioning. "Are you sure you wanna – now?" Pete asks, stilling Patrick's hand on his hip. "I mean, I wanna, but – but – "

"Yeah," Patrick breathes, "we've got time,"-  _just about -_ "and – I want you," he finishes, sitting on Pete's legs and resting their foreheads together. Thoughts like this have hit him like an avalanche over the past week; almost every night he's found himself under the covers with his hand shoved into his pants, his teeth biting hard into his lip to stifle his moans of pleasure. He needs the real thing, now. "Wait, you do mean sex, right?" he asks, just to be absolutely sure.

Pete laughs, and it doesn't make Patrick feel stupid anymore, only glad that Pete's smiling because of him. "Yeah – well, not, like  _actual,_ y'know,  _sex_ sex, but-"

"Why not?" Patrick asks, drawing back from Pete. Then, a horrific thought dawns on him. "Do you not want to have sex with me?"

"Of  _course_ I do – I mean, I – yeah, I'd like to," Pete stumbles, his hand reaching up to brush hair from Patrick's face, "but – we need certain things for proper sex, or it's dangerous, y'know – and, and it should be special, not – not rushed. We can do something else for now," Pete says gently, stroking his thumb across Patrick's jaw. Patrick realises yet again how fucking lovely it is to be touched like this.

"Okay," he nods. Then, he has an idea.

He's seen people do this before, on the internet, so he figures it can't be too difficult, but that doesn't mean he isn't nervous as he unbuttons Pete's jeans and tries to work them down his thighs; it doesn't work as well as he'd have liked, and he's left growling at the jeans as Pete takes over.

Patrick settles himself between Pete's legs as the underwear is pulled off too, and finds himself faced with Pete's dick for the second time. He was fucking  _relieved_ when he found out it was normal; Andy had insisted that the collection of objects between his legs was perfectly ordinary, but Patrick was never sure until he'd seen one in the flesh. And there it is, fleshy and kind of floppy but attractive in an ugly way. And he's got to put his mouth on it. Huh.

He folds his wings behind his back and leans his head down, when Pete fucking stalls  _again._ "Uh – you don't have to do this if – if you don't want to."

"I  _do_ want to," Patrick asserts, he wants to make Pete feel  _amazing,_ that's what special people should do.

"Okay," Pete breathes, "just – no teeth, alright? Please." Patrick tries not to feel offended that Pete's looking a little scared.

Taking a deep breath, Patrick ducks his head and licks a shimmering stripe along the side of Pete's cock; it's not too bad. Salty, but he'll deal with it if it means Pete'll make  _that_ noise again. Wrapping his fingers around it, he puts his lips to it once more, licking faster and feeling it harden in his hand. That must mean he's doing something right.

When he starts to suck, it's a strange sensation – his tongue pushed flat and his lips struggling to keep his teeth under wraps – but Pete groans, like he wants Patrick, and Patrick feels himself flush with arousal. It must be love, otherwise he wouldn't be getting off to sucking on someone else's private parts. He lets out a moan, and Pete whimpers above him, his hand reaching to rest gently in Patrick's hair. He sucks harder, trying to bob his head like in the videos, but it's apparently more difficult than it looks, especially when Pete's hips snap upwards and Patrick's throat freaks the fuck out.

He jerks backwards, and his teeth pick this particular moment to get involved in proceedings, catching the head of Pete's dick as Patrick pulls off, coughing, amidst Pete's cries of pain.

"Sorry – shit – sorry," Pete's saying, cupping his crotch with his eyes squeezed shut as Patrick wipes the string of saliva from his mouth. "I shouldn't have – holy  _shit_ that hurt, didn't I tell you about the teeth?"

Patrick's just about to apologise before he decides he doesn't much like Pete's attitude. " _Hey,_ I didn't fucking  _mean to,_ alright, you tried to fit your whole damn dick in my mouth, what the fuck did you expect, asshole?!"

They glare at each other for a few seconds, Pete clutching his cock tighter and Patrick coughing dramatically into his hand to prove his point, before Pete's lips quirk up at the edges, and they both begin to giggle. "You and your bloody biting," Pete huffs, but Patrick knows he isn't really angry because he pulls Patrick towards him and pecks him on the lips, letting Patrick settle against him.

"I'm sorry about your dick," Patrick says as sincerely as he can, but Pete only laughs harder.

"If you wanna ever have sex with me, you're gonna have to keep it relatively  _un_ damaged," Pete tells him, beginning to jack himself slowly. "Now, take two?"

Patrick doesn't understand what Pete means, but he pretends to, and he obviously does the right thing when he takes over from Pete, because the man doesn't protest. Patrick smiles when he feels Pete begin to get hard again – at least he didn't do any permanent damage.

"Hey, it still works," Pete says cheerfully, shifting Patrick back into his lap and kissing him again, a smile shaping his lips. His hands drift towards Patrick's butt, pushing his trousers and underwear down and making Patrick yelp when he feels Pete squeeze his ass.

"Your hands are cold," Patrick scowls, but Pete just grins.

"I'll have to warm them up, then," he smirks, then rubs his hands against Patrick's ass, making Patrick squirm and giggle. "Is that better?"

Patrick just grins against Pete's neck, hand still working on Pete's dick. "Are butts sexy?" he asks, curious. He's never thought of butts as anything apart from things to sit on.

"Yours is," Pete shrugs, kneading it in his hands to prove his point. Patrick feels an unexpected pride for his ass. "Anything's sexy if it's on the right person."

Then he kisses Patrick softly, as if  _he's_ the  _right person,_ and Patrick feels a little sick with how much he wants Pete, his wings spreading and his feathers fanning out as if to bathe in Pete's glow. The way Pete still gazes at them as they move makes Patrick love him even more.

They get each other off like that, Patrick's hand moving fast on Pete's dick and Pete's hand shoved in Patrick's pants, moaning into each other's mouths and laughing at the stupid faces they both make when they finally come undone.

Patrick ends up slumped half on top of Pete, but the man doesn't seem to mind; he wraps his arms around Patrick and kisses the top of his head. Patrick buries his nose in Pete's t-shirt, trying to commit his smell to memory, the warmth of his skin. He hates that he doesn't know how long it will be until they get to do this again, that they don't have weeks to waste exploring each other's bodies. He shuts his eyes and tells himself he can't cry.

"How much longer do we have," Pete says quietly, but Patrick just shakes his head. He's dreading the knock at the door. "Long enough for me to do this," Pete finishes, and Patrick thinks he's going to kiss him, but Pete's fingers move to his face and begin to scratch behind his ear, and holy  _fuck._ Patrick hears himself let out something like a sob at how good it feels, purrs beginning to rumble through him for the first time in too long. He cuddles Pete tighter, hates that he'll ever have to let go.

Pete gets all the good places: behind Patrick's ears, the top of his head, the back of his neck, fingers running rhythmically through his hair and breaths brushing across his face. It's heaven, in all honesty. Perhaps Pete was right all along.

Then, Patrick feels a dull pain in his collarbone as Pete's fingers snag on something. When Patrick reaches to touch whatever it is, his stomach turns.

It's a patch, a large, white circle with a stud of metal in the middle, stuck to numbed skin. There's one the other side, too. Patrick starts to feel sick.

"What the hell?" Pete says, laughing slightly, fingers still rubbing the patches.

"No," Patrick says, pushing himself off Pete's lap and ripping the patches off, his mind racing ahead. Fifteen minutes has been and gone, Andy hasn't stopped them and White hasn't knocked either of them out. White had nothing scheduled for Patrick this evening. White knows where he is at all times because of the tracker in his arm. This is all a setup.

Pete's calling his name as Patrick stumbles around the room, checking the draws and the cabinets and the desks until he finds it. It's buried in the table leg, the same height as the bed. It's a camera. Patrick claws it out of the wood and crushes it against the wall with a cry of anguish. He's been so fucking stupid.

"What the hell, Patrick?" Pete says from the bed, "What's going on?"

Patrick can hardly bear to tell him. He frowns at the floor and pulls his wings around him, as if he still has time to shield himself from this. He can't look at Pete as he starts to speak. "They've been watching us," he says quietly, kicking at the broken bits of plastic littering the floor. "Filming us."

" _What,_ " Pete hisses, and Patrick hears movement but he still doesn't look. He won't watch Pete's face, it'll only make everything hurt more. His hands shake as his mind processes what they've taken from him; his freedom, his privacy, and now his intimacy with Pete. He focusses his gaze on a particular spot on the white wall, then slams his fist against it, once, twice, the plaster crumbling and his knuckles splitting against the brickwork underneath. His blood spatters across the wall and begins to drip between his fingers.

"Are you sure," Pete says robotically. When Patrick finally glances up at him, he's in the middle of the room, staring at Patrick, unblinking.

Patrick nods. "They've done this before," he says quietly, feeling the sting of the patches over his pulse. He's seen them before; they monitor his heart rate, his breathing. He didn't notice them. Always check for patches, always check for cameras. He's  _so fucking stupid._

"What do you mean,  _they've done it before?"_ Pete spits, glaring a hole in Patrick's head. "Why the  _fuck_ didn't you warn me? That's  _sick!"_

"I didn't know!" Patrick yelps, "I didn't think they'd – fucking..."  _I didn't think. I didn't think about anything besides you._

They stare at each other for a few moments; Patrick can see Pete's mind working, his eyes boiling and his mouth open in horror. Then he starts to shout.

It's nonsense at first, curses and yells at no-one in particular, but then Pete turns on Patrick with shrieks and wild hand gestures, stuff about  _what the fuck were you thinking coming in here_ and  _why the hell didn't you realise sooner,_ and Patrick can only watch in agony as Pete becomes the perfect weapon. Patrick wonders whether Pete will hit him for this, knowing that Patrick won't hit back. This is the blame; next comes the punishment. He folds his wings behind him in readiness, they'll only break if he uses them to block the punches.  

He tries to think of  _something, anything_ to say in his own defence, but all he can hear is Pete's rage, all he can feel is the anger, inexpressible anger. Its only translation is the pain in his knuckles and the cracks in the wall. 

But the next thing Patrick knows, Pete's gone. The door slams shut behind him, and Patrick's left staring after him, blood still dripping from his hand. Gulping down a breath and blinking the tears from his eyes, Patrick follows.

Franklin grabs him by the shoulders as soon as he steps out the door. He should've expected it,  _stupid, so fucking stupid._

"Don't even try," Franklin sighs as Patrick struggles, but Patrick's half given up already, watching Pete sprint down the corridor towards Andy's office, no doubt. Andy. The fucking traitor.

"Where's White," Patrick croaks, "'cause I'm gonna fucking kill her."

"No, you're not," Franklin says wearily, "and before you ask,  _yes,_ they were all watching. Johnson too," he adds, and Patrick feels a stab of shame in his chest. "So just, y'know, brace yourself, kid."

"Why did they fucking do it?" Patrick cries as he's dragged down the corridor, Franklin's hand close enough to his halo to keep him moving.

"You know them," Franklin grumbles, "they don't need a reason. Wentz looked pretty furious, though."

Patrick can hear Pete arguing with someone, his shouts echoing down the corridor,  _expectations of privacy_ and  _basis for a lawsuit_ and lots of other things Patrick doesn't understand. "Is it my fault?" he asks. Pete seemed pretty fucking adamant that it is.

At that, Franklin stops, pulling Patrick back. He looks down at Patrick for a few seconds, then places a hand on his shoulder. "No, Patrick. None of it is." He opens his mouth as if he'd like to say more, but lets out a rush of air instead. Patrick releases the breath he's been holding. He didn't expect to  _not_ get shouted at. Franklin glances towards the shouting, then back at Patrick. "I've gotta take you to your room. Would you rather go the long way round?"

Patrick listens to the raised voices, hearing his own name among the echoes, and nods quickly. He doesn't want to know what they're saying. He can't go near White, in case he kills her. He can't face Pete, can't face their marred relationship, their ruined intimacy. He focusses on Franklin's grip on his shoulder and away from what's been exposed, all the new insults they'll think up, the humiliation of it all.

Franklin knows to shut the door behind him on his way out; he even gives Patrick's shoulder a squeeze, an apology of sorts. Patrick decides to avoid punching Franklin quite so much in future. The wall, however, isn't quite so lucky.

As he sits on his bed, anger subsiding, amidst his wrecked bedroom and his bloody knuckles, his eyes trail to the security camera in the corner of the room. He wonders what Pete would say if he knew they've been watching Patrick ever since he can remember. Why wouldn't there be cameras in Pete's room? Why didn't Patrick  _check? Stupid, he's so fucking stupid._ Stupid to think he could ever separate himself from his own crushing reality.

He curls up under the covers and prays that whatever his punishment is, it can wait until tomorrow.

-

Andy rubs the bridge of his nose gingerly as Wentz spouts his bloody statutes over and over; he really doesn't have the energy. This was White's idea – they always are – and she's left him to clear up the mess. And what a mess it is.

"...you  _tricked_ us into – into exposing ourselves on film, you – what did you tell Patrick to get him in there, huh? Or is he in on this too? What –

"No, he is not  _in on this,"_ Andy sighs at the flailing lawyer who's currently pacing Andy's office.

"He said you've  _done this before,_ is spying on people's – sexual endeavours a regular thing around here? What do you intend to use the footage for?" Pete shouts, throwing his arms about the place like boomerangs.

"Nothing, Mr. Wentz, and I'll tell you again that you were not the focus of this," Andy says calmly, folding his arms across the desk.

"Then I'll ask  _you_ again, why is  _Patrick_ the focus?" Pete demands, but they've been over this.

"It will be disclosed at a-"

"At a later bloody date, yes, you said that, but right now, all I'm seeing is you filming him -  _me –_ having sex and – I don't know, what is it gonna be? Revenge porn? Threats? Or just something to get you in the mood?"

"For goodness' sake, you –"

"Tell me the purpose of that footage!" the lawyer yells, pointing a finger at Andy, his face flustered and his chest heaving.

"Okay, Wentz," Andy says, getting up from his chair. He didn't want to have to do this now, but he doesn't see any other options. "I think it's time for your briefing." 


	17. I Knew You Were Weird, But This Is Too Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, here's an explanation. 
> 
> Kinda nervous about this one, so please let me know your thoughts! 
> 
> Love you all, as always. xx

Pete is told to pack his essentials into a bag and follow Andy. His voice is hoarse from all the shouting, his brain blurred from all the various near-panic attacks he's been hit with over the past week. He can't believe he ever mistook this for heaven; if anything, it's some strange circle of hell, the relentless questioning, the rigid schedule, the pre-digested mess they like to call  _food._ The scars that keep appearing on Patrick's body.

But now he's had enough. He won't tolerate this anymore. Besides, he's already given White everything. She has every detail of their relationship, the kisses they've exchanged, their intimacies, the way Patrick's eyes roll back as he comes, the way his body relaxes against Pete's when they're together. It feels like a betrayal. He tells himself he had no choice, ignores the lack of persuasion it took for him to spill everything. Besides, now she has video evidence.

He hates her. He hates this place, he hates that he doesn't know where he is and no-one will tell him. Even Patrick, who fucking  _lives_ here, for goodness' sake, doesn't seem to know. Andy better be leading him to some damn answers.

The door to Patrick's room stands out from the rest – it's steel, flanked with deadbolts – and Pete averts his eyes. This isn't about the boy, no matter how much Pete wonders whether he's in there, cowering from Pete like he was not so long ago. Pete won't let himself feel guilty; this is as much Patrick's fault as it is anyone else's.

When Andy stops in front of a large door, Pete thinks this must be it: the famous briefing. Andy scans some sort of ID, punches in a code, scans each of his finger prints, looks into what must be a retinal scanner, then finally opens the door, beckoning Pete through, leading him down yet another corridor, does the same at yet another door. It's all becoming a little too Mission: Impossible for Pete.

They reach what is clearly a cloak room, and it messes with Pete's head a little, especially when Andy shrugs off his white coat and shoves a sweater over his head, grabbing a bag and a phone from a locker, staring at the screen for a few seconds before finally glancing up at Pete and gesturing to his soft clothes and bare feet. "You might want to put some shoes on."

Pete does, quickly, changing his trousers too, grateful for Andy's averted gaze. "Where are we going?" he asks as he stands, glancing towards yet another very secure-looking door.

"You want to know what's going on," Andy shrugs, swiping his key card in the lock, "I'm showing you."

"O-okay," Pete nods, even though he thought this would be more of a tell than a show. He follows Andy through the door, immediately noticing the lack of silence around him; there's chatter seeping through the walls, the sound of footsteps echoing from far-away corridors and from his own feet as they hurry down several flights of stairs.

"Peter Wentz and Andrew Hurley, checking out," Andy says to a woman Pete's never seen before, sitting behind a glass screen. Andy shows his ID, then gestures to Pete, "he's only just got clearance, but he should still show on the system."

The woman, who looks remarkably like a cottage loaf, stares at Pete for a few seconds, before tapping away at her computer and nodding slightly. "Yes, he's fine. Oh, these are yours, I think," she adds, holding a clear bag of items out to Pete. Pete's heart lifts when he sees his phone, his beloved phone, his keys, and his wallet, and he snatches the bag from her with mumbled thanks. "Have a good weekend, Andy," she smiles, and he grins at her, poking out his tongue. It's the most normal thing Pete's seen Andy do.

Nevertheless, the man strides on, greeting several others as he walks. They turn a corner and head towards a set of double doors flanked with armed guards. Neither of them looks particularly friendly.

"Have you figured it out yet?" Andy sighs at Pete as they approach the doors.

"Uh," Pete falters, clutching his bags tighter in his hands. He has an inkling, but it's uncertain and he doesn't want to be wrong. For all he knows, the doors could lead to God's private estates.

"Come on, lawyer, isn't it obvious?" Andy nods at the guards and they return the gesture. Then he scans his ID one last time, and the door buzzes loudly, clicking open. When Andy pushes through, Pete feels a rush of cold air stream past him, and stone under his feet. When he looks around at the world he's stepped into, he can hardly believe his eyes.

"This is -" Pete starts, letting the doors shut behind him as he feels the wind on his face and hears the swoop of traffic in his ears. "This is London."

Andy stops to look at him, dull eyes unwavering. "Yes."

"But – but," Pete stammers, twisting around to look up at the building they've just emerged from. "This isn't – that's not -"

"No, that's not heaven," Andy sighs. "That is the core research laboratory of the Natural History Museum."

Everything inside Pete seems to drop a hundred feet yet fall perfectly into place at the same time. "We've been here – London –  _Earth –_ this whole time?" The city glows under the darkening clouds, the chill of November seeping into Pete's fingertips, the rustle of autumn leaves whispering in his ears.

"Yes – walk, Pete," Andy huffs impatiently, gesturing towards the curved driveway in front of them and the busy road beyond. "I'll explain once you have a drink in your hand."

"Wait – did you say  _laboratory?_ Wha – is Patrick – Patrick's not a fucking  _angel,_ is he, he's a – a genetically modified –  _freak!"_ Pete cries, anger rising inside him that he's been tricked like this, duped into –  _ugh,_ into kissing some test-tube monster, some abomination of nature. Bile rises in the back of his throat.

Andy simply rolls his eyes. "No, Pete, he is. I'll explain in a moment."

"What the hell does that mean? You're bloody human, you always have been and you still think you can bloody lord it over me and – bloody, use me, for your damn  _videos,_ you were all  _the law doesn't apply to us_ but that's a damn  _joke,_ I  _can_ bloody sue you!" Pete nearly yells, tears springing to his eyes as he stares around at what definitely isn't heaven. Andy simply looks at him wearily, then turns and trudges away from the building like  _he's_ the one who's pissed about all this.

For a long few seconds, Pete thinks about running, about calling the police or simply curling into a ball and contemplating what the hell this all means, but his feet stumble after Andy instead.

-

"Okay," Pete huffs, scotch in hand and gaze firmly planted upon the man sitting opposite him in the back booth of whatever shady bar this is. He's ordered large, seeing as Andy's buying and it looks like it's going to be a long night. "Talk."

Andy takes a careful sip of lime and soda, and sets it down on the table with painful slowness. "Right. So. I don't know what Patrick's told you, but where we were wasn't -"

"-Heaven, yes, I know that. He kept telling me that, he just never said it was fucking  _earth."_ The lying bastard.

"He doesn't know, Pete."

"What?"

The man gives a strained smile, and sighs heavily. "He doesn't know where he is, he has no connection with the outside world, how should he know?"

Pete shakes his head as if it might help his whirring thoughts settle into place. "Wait – so, what the hell is he?" He can't get the image of a Frankenstein creature out of his head, the flash of lighting bringing Patrick to life.

"Unfortunately, he's exactly what you think he is. He's an angel. Have you heard of interdimensional physics?"

"What – no, go back to Patrick, how did he get here?" Pete bristles, brow furrowed.

"I'm getting to that. Interdimensional physics is -"

"Who the hell are you? Are  _you_ an angel too? What the fuck is going on?"

Andy's eyes flash with annoyance, and he takes another long draught of his drink. "This isn't going to work if you don't let me speak, Wentz."

Glaring, Pete shrugs, slumping against the wall. "Fine. Explain."

"Okay. Alright." Andy seems so calm, completely unaware that the longer he stalls, the closer he gets to a black eye. "So, a very long time ago, I was a student. Biochemistry at Oxford, I was good, too, top of my year," he muses, and Pete fails to hold back an eye-roll.

Andy just frowns and carries on. "Anyway, I was lucky enough to be selected for a placement year in the industry; and not just any industry. I was told it was confidential to the public, that I could not pass on any information, that I was there to watch, and  _only_ watch. I agreed, of course."

"Watch what?" Pete grunts, wondering what the hell this has to do with anything apart from the nursing of Andy's ego.

The man simply sighs. "I didn't know. I don't think anyone really knew what they were going to be seeing - even those closely involved. You see, since the development of nuclear technology, physicists have been studying the effects of such weapons on the atmosphere and environment and so forth, and - I'm no physicist, but I believe they found some sort of -  _disturbance -_ in - in, well. In not just the earth and the air but in the continuum itself."

Pete watches as Andy sits back as if in reverence, mind buzzing with confusion. "In English, please," he huffs, hating Andy for making him feel stupid. He hasn't felt like this since secondary school science lessons.

"Well, if Einstein described space and time as a fabric, then what the nuclear impacts had done was rip a hole in it. And, as it turned out, there was another layer of fabric underneath. A different - a different world."

Pete raises his eyebrows. "Right," he nods, deciding to finish his drink and walk out of there if Andy keeps spouting bullshit.

"If you're not going to believe me, we might as well go home," Andy tuts, eyes dull behind his glasses.

"Okay, yes, different world, carry on," Pete sighs, watching the ice in his drink float in a steady circle.

"Anyway, the research conducted showed that this other dimension might have similar conditions to that of Earth - and signs of life, too. But they wanted to know more, as they always do. They used a controlled explosion to create a sort of - pathway - into this place. They sent in endless robots, drones, probes, none came back, but none found anything hostile, either. . So they sent in soldiers. Not scientists, not astronauts,  _soldiers._ I'd like to say I knew it was wrong from the start, but in all honesty, the privilege of watching the live footage alongside so many of the world's greatest scientific minds was enough to keep me quiet."

"What did they do," Pete says, trying to remain emotionless but aware of the worry creeping into his voice. "What was the place?"

"They haven't given it an official name, yet. It's been dubbed a lot of things - Utopia, Other Earth, Nirvana and so forth. The landscape was habitable,  _beautiful,_ it was like glass and greenery combined, the city was like nothing I'd ever - but, yes, they went in there and found a civilisation. In fact, the pathway seemed to have destroyed rather a large chunk of their civilisation, and they didn't take too kindly to the arrival of soldiers. This was, of course -"

"Who's  _they?"_ Pete interrupts, despite the lurking feeling that he knows already.

"The angels. Or, the  _winged humanoids,_ as they were called. Some ran, some advanced. This was obviously deemed as a hostile response, and the soldiers were given the go-ahead to open fire. Which, of course, they did. I don't know how many died."

Andy pauses for a moment to take a swig from his glass, then shakes his head slowly. "Once they'd cleared the area, they were told to gather a small number of samples and retreat. But - their heat sensors picked up another creature. They were hiding under shrapnel, as I recall, too scared to flee. It was a mother and child. They were found, and the mother was apparently showing signs of aggression, so they shot her in the head. And they were told to take the body, they  _should_ have taken the body. But they took the child, instead."

There's a sickness in Pete's chest as he contemplates where this might be going, but he says nothing. Andy's face is carved into a frown as he continues, his voice quiet and gravelly.

"It took weeks to stabilise the baby; its kind seemed to gain energy from the sun,  _their_ sun, and it didn't breathe like we do, eat like we do. But it evolved. The reports are fascinating. It actually changed its biological structure to fit its environment, it developed lungs and intestines and a heart, and once it was safe to transport, it - he came to us. Well, to White. She fought tooth and nail for her lab to be the one to raise the child - or, to conduct the investigation.

"I didn't know her at the time, of course, but at the end of my placement, I was offered a job at the lab. I'd hoped to be more involved in the Other world itself; but the original project in Arizona had been put on hold, due to lack of funds, and it'll be years still before we find a safer and less destructive pathway across dimensions. Anyway, I took the job. I wasn't supposed to be so involved, but they needed someone to do the dirty work. He was a baby, he still needed putting to sleep and feeding and changing, and it fell to me. Of course, there were others who cared for him, but I was the only one who stayed. And eighteen years later, I'm still here."

Pete can only stare as Andy sits back and exhales slowly. "So - so all this time...Patrick's been living in a lab? You - you took him from his family and you - you -"

"Please don't think that  _I_ orchestrated any of this. I'm simply doing my job," Andy says curtly, pursing his lips.

"I don't care if you bloody  _orchestrated_ this or not, he - he's a living thing, not some - some  _science project,_ I can't believe you'd - oh  _God,"_ Pete finally sighs, running his fingers through his hair. This is so much worse than he'd imagined. "Those cuts...you've been slicing him up since he was a kid, haven't you?"

Andy nods. "We thought, if we raised him right, if we made the experiments a regular thing and punished him for any disobedience, that we could create the perfect specimen; passive and willing to let us do whatever we wanted to him."

A bitter laugh falls from Pete's mouth. "You fucking failed."

"Yes, we did," Andy smiles coldly, "as he got older, he became more intelligent, and I think he always knew something wasn't right. He saw right through us. We weren't expecting that."

"Good," Pete growls, and Andy's eyes flash with anger.

"But it doesn't help him! I've been trying to get that through his head for years, that if he'd just  _stop,_ stop being so damn  _difficult,_ then he wouldn't be so badly treated! He can lash out all he wants, but in the end, all it's going to get him is another wound. He can't win this fight, Pete, he proved that when he got himself caught," Andy snaps, slapping a hand down on the table.

A tense silence stretches out between them. Pete's mouth tries to find the best way to express the intense frustration building in his chest, but settles on satisfying his curiosities instead. "He said he escaped," Pete grunts, "when? How?"

"About six months ago," Andy says stiffly, finally retracting his hand and folding his arms. "I thought he was contemplating suicide when he told me he wanted to get out, but he was thinking more literally than that. Mind you, the things we'd been doing to him - I wouldn't have been surprised to find him with slits in his wrists. We -"

"Whoa, what the  _fuck?"_ Pete splutters, mind reeling over whether or not he just heard the man right. "What had you been doing?!"

Andy's eyes flick to Pete's, and Pete swears he sees the guilt right behind them. "Well - as, as he got older, the experiments became more - invasive. Plus, his body kept becoming immune to the tranquillisers - he would often wake up in the middle of - well. There was an incident, a slip up in a procedure to investigate his optic chiasma. It left him blind, and in an immense amount of pain for weeks. He recovered, thankfully, but I think he'd decided enough was enough. A month later, he was gone."

Pete stares for a second as he hears the atrocities fall from Andy's mouth so easily, but presses on. "How did he escape?"

Andy barks a laugh. "He made a pipe bomb."

" _What?!"_

"God knows how. We didn't teach him about chemicals - we didn't teach him anything that might lead to questions about his whereabouts, we wanted to raise him with minimal human influence - but he worked out what certain things did, and how he could use them. No-one knew anything about it until he blew a six foot hole in the wall. He'd calculated everything, you see; the timings of the patrols, the angles of the security cameras and where exactly they wouldn't see him. The only thing he underestimated was the force of the blast, I think. He was blown right through the wall. Fell two storeys."

"So...he thought he fell from heaven?" Pete says slowly, shock fading to realisation.

"It would seem so. Or, at least, that's what you've made him believe. We thought he'd be easy to catch - he was injured, badly, he's had a tracker in him since he could walk, and he's not exactly difficult to spot - but, my God, he ran. He dug the tracker out of his arm, too, but he didn't just drop it and run, oh no. He planted it on a boat; we chased it all the way to bloody Belgium before we realised it was no longer attached to him," Andy says, shaking his head. If Pete's not mistaken, there's a hint of pride in his words. "Then he met you, I suppose, and you know the rest."

Andy shrugs like this is nothing, like they're done talking and they can both go home now. Like he hasn't just confessed to the kidnap and torture of a child. Pete should be racking up the allegations by now, but all he can think about is  _Patrick._ The boy who collected cats like they were jewels, the boy who walked into a lamppost because his eyes were fixed in awe upon the heavens. Pete finally understands. Patrick went eighteen years without ever seeing the sky.

"How the  _fuck_ could you do this," Pete growls, his voice crumbling with oncoming tears. "He's a  _kid."_

"He's an  _animal,_ Pete," Andy says, and Pete has never hated him more. "He's  _dangerous."_

"No he isn't!" Pete protests, "He's kind, and, and sweet and -"

"Yes, towards you. He thinks he's in love with you - he doesn't have the first idea what love is. But I've seen him break a man's arm, I've seen him beat the life out of an intern, I've seen him tear a doctor's chest right open. He understands hatred far too well."

"He's - he's  _killed_ people?" Pete says quietly, wondering what he'll do if the answer is  _yes._

"No," Andy says simply, "but I wouldn't put it past him. He's  _strong,_ Pete, he's stronger than we predicted, and he could do a lot of damage. We keep him suitably fit, of course, but he's - he could put his fist through your skull if he wanted to."

"Well, maybe if you stopped  _hurting_ him-"

"I'm not the one -"

"You bloody let it happen!" Pete cries, "You're as bad as White!"

"I can't leave, Pete. I'm all he has," Andy says softly, and  _fuck,_ he looks like he actually believes it.

"What," Pete says, choosing to take a swig of scotch over lunging across the table.

"I can't stop the experiments, or change the circumstances, but I try to make things better here and there. I ensure that they use the least painful procedures, or those that have the least uncomfortable after-effects. I made up stories to tell him at bedtime, I had special textbooks printed for him with no human context, I convinced White to allow a piano to be brought in. Without me, he has no one who is remotely on his side. I won't leave," he sighs, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. "All things said, he's like a son to me."

Pete almost laughs at that, but he finds he doesn't have the capacity to do so. He just sits and stares, letting Andy buy him another drink because the burn of the alcohol gives him something other than the words to wince at.

"Pete," Andy says gently as he sits down, sliding the glass smoothly into Pete's hand, "please don't think I'm a tyrant. I know he's a thinking, feeling person, I know how astounding it is that he's even remotely sane at this stage. Hell, I know how intelligent he is, better than anyone -"

" _I_ know he's clever," Pete spits, hating that Andy's tie to Patrick is eighteen years stronger than his own.

Andy shakes his head vigorously. "No, no, I don't mean he's simply  _clever._ Of course he's clever, he hid from the British government for six months! No, I mean, well. He's very good at maths.  _Very_ good."

"I  _know,"_ Pete insists, even if he doesn't, really. He always zoned out whenever Patrick talked maths.

"Pete, he won a Fields Medal."

"A what?"

Andy huffs as if Pete's stupidity positively exasperates him. "Essentially the equivalent of a Nobel Prize, in mathematics. He doesn't know it, of course. We took his proof and sold it to the highest bidder. It was an awful thing to do, really."

It's the most guilty Andy's looked all evening. Pete's blood reaches peak temperature.

"He doesn't know his own worth, you see," Andy sighs, " he's – I've had offers from Cambridge, Yale, MIT, I've shown experts his papers and they want him, they want to know who the anonymous genius is, and – and if his mind could be turned to applied maths, he could really – he could help humanity progress, in engineering, in, in space travel, you name it, he's just – he's  _wasted_ there. It's a travesty, it really is."

"That's  _sick,_ he'd be wasted even if he couldn't count to ten," Pete snarls. "How much of this does he know?"

"Oh, he's worked some of it out. I'm sure he must have realised that we're human by now. But that was why you were so useful - you could keep up the facade for us, not knowing where you were. We learned a lot about him from you. We've explored his sexual responses before, but to see him react to a genuine stimulant was utterly fascinating." The enthusiasm on Andy's face makes Pete's stomach turn.

"That was an outrageous invasion of our privacy," Pete states, remembering just how quickly such beautiful moments were spoiled forever. But then, it's hardly the worst thing they've done to Patrick.

"The footage won't be publicly shared, and when it is shown to others for research purposes, your face will be blurred. None of the information about yourself will be released - it's only Patrick we care about. Now that you've been briefed, you're decidedly less useful to us - but everything Wan said to you when you arrived still stands. We were very lucky you came into our hands; Patrick trusts you, and that's a rare thing. We want to work with you as much as possible." He says it like it's an actual, viable option.

"Piss off," Pete replies immediately, reading between the lines of Andy's honey-dipped words. "I'm not helping you."

"Well, then I suppose you're fired," Andy muses, sipping at his drink.

" _What?!"_ Pete hisses, then realises what exactly Andy is doing. His options have been reduced to either helping them hurt Patrick, or never seeing Patrick again. "But if I leave -"

"We'll pay you for your trouble, we'll deliver your belongings and any paperwork, and we'll leave you alone," Andy finishes.

It's an enticing option. But. "He'll be devastated."  _I'll be devastated._

"Oh, you know Patrick. He'll probably fracture some knuckles over it, but he'll bounce back."

"What if I decide that I don't want to keep quiet about all this?" Pete challenges. He's sure he has some friends who specialise in whatever area of the law this falls into.

Andy just shakes his head. "You signed a binding non-disclosure agreement at the start of your employment. Break it, and we can make life very difficult for you - we have the British government behind us, plus every team of scientists privy to this project."

"What if I don't give a fuck?" Pete tries, his Patrick impression falling a little flat.

"I think you do, Mr. Wentz," Andy says coldly. "Plus, if you decide to interfere, your stupidity could have grave consequences for Patrick."

"Oh,  _fuck_ you," Pete cries, slamming a hand down on the table. He's not used to being out-gunned; and it's at the expense of someone so close to him.

Jamming the heels of his hands into his eyes, Pete lets the silence stretch out between them. He can feel Andy's fucking smirk burning a hole in his head, but there's nothing left that he can say, he won't go back, he  _can't,_ not now, not knowing the truth.

"I should have known you were human all along," Pete says bitterly, "only humans would do this."

Andy just nods slowly, knowing but not caring, acknowledging but not considering. Pete thinks of Patrick, locked in his room, with no idea that his life is all a lie. That somewhere in another fucking  _universe_ there's a father with no son. Pete's own mind is having trouble bending itself around all this. He always knew the kid was weird, but  _this._ This is not what he expected to walk into. And, from the start, he's wanted nothing more than to get out. So that's exactly what he does.

"Okay," he blurts, downing the remainder of his drink, "I quit. I don't need all this shit." He's already fucking  _dying,_ for Christ's sake.

Andy smiles. "A wise decision, Mr. Wentz. Thank you for your services."

Pete stares at him for a few seconds, wondering how the hell he could have ever seen Andy as god-like. He's an insect, an  _infestation._ Pete walks away.

-

"Pete?" his mother says when she opens the door to find the shivering shell of her son beneath the porch. "What's happened?"

There was only one place Pete wanted to go when he emerged from the bar, head spinning. He can't hold back anymore; he collapses into her arms and begins to sob. "I - Patrick, he - he's not - oh  _God,_ mum, you have to believe me, I can't - I - he -" His speech dissolves as she hugs him tight, bringing him into the house and shushing softly in his ear.

"It's okay, sweetie, I'll make you some tea and we can talk about this," she says, calm as always, and while Pete wants to forget everything to do with other worlds and sketchy science and angel boys, he also has to tell  _someone,_ someone who'll react like a human being.

As he finds himself on his mother's sofa with a cup of tea in his hands, he's never been more relieved to be on earth. He tells her everything. She believes every word. They both cry for Patrick. 


	18. As Displays Of Arseholery Go, This Is Something Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. Just sorry. 
> 
>  
> 
> (Leave a comment, yay!)

Patrick knows that something is going on. They never usually lock him in his room for this long, not without cause, but he’s been rattling around for four days now with no idea what he’s done wrong.

It must be something, it’s always something, they’ve never made such a secret of it before. He’s tried bashing the door down, just for good measure, tried grabbing at the hands that push food through the hatch at the bottom, tried screaming at the fucking cameras before giving in and smashing them to pieces with a torn-off chair leg.

In the end, he gets so bored he fixes the chair, and the bedside table, and the lamp he broke in his fit of fury after what happened with Pete. He worries endlessly, pacing until he’s exhausted and falling into bed for night after restless night. Pete shouted at Andy, and if Andy tells White, and if White decides to - to -  _fuck._ Patrick can’t even imagine what they might be doing to Pete, whether he’s even still alive.

Patrick thinks he is, though. He can’t be sure, but he  _feels_ it, in his chest, in his halo. He’d know if Pete was dead. Then again, there’s worse things than killing him.

“Where is he?” is the first question Patrick asks when White finally opens his bedroom door to find him sitting on the floor surrounded by numbers. She frowns automatically, her mouth spreading to a thin line.

“Get up,” she snaps, and Patrick has yet to figure out how he’s wronged her, other than simply by being alive.

“What have I done?” he says as innocently as he can, getting to his feet and looking her in the eye. “Why did you lock me in here?”  _Again._

“Be quiet,” she hisses as she stalks over to him and grabs him by the arm, dragging him out of the room. She’s tense, more so than usual; distracted, too. “Where’s Franklin? Franklin!”

The man appears from around a corner almost immediately. White shoves Patrick towards him. “Restrain him. Follow me.”

Franklin’s hand replaces White’s around Patrick’s arm, and it’s considerably less painful. The man gently guides him in the direction White’s headed, face darkened with worry. Something’s definitely going on.

“Where’s Pete?” Patrick asks again, peering around every corner, afraid he’ll see Pete’s body or hear Pete’s screams.

Franklin has the fucking decency to actually answer him. “He’s fine,” the man says kindly, giving his arm a soft squeeze. Patrick breathes out properly for the first time in four days.

“Are you sure?” he asks, just for good measure, and to indulge the fact that someone is actually talking to him. But White answers first.

“No! He’s not fine at all, he’s bloody  _gone!”_ she yells, her hands curling into fists. Patrick mirrors the action, and Franklin’s grip on his arm tightens slightly. “He left, like the coward we all knew he was,” she snarls, moving closer to Patrick.

She’s horribly close to his face as she begins to growl. “I told you he’d get bored of you. He left you to rot. He ran away to his convertible and his six-figure salary. He doesn’t love you. No-one does. Now, shut your filthy mouth or I’ll sew it shut myself.”

With that, she turns away, a flick of her finger gesturing for them to follow. Patrick casts a glance at Franklin, who shrugs slightly and shakes his head, indicating that  _he_ has no idea what’s got into White either.  _Not true,_ Franklin mouths, and Patrick nods. He knows better than to take White’s insults to heart; at least, not until Andy reiterates them.

When White stops in front of a certain door, though, Patrick feels the panic wrap its fingers around his lungs and squeeze.

“No - no,” he protests, struggling against Franklin’s grip, “you just locked me up, you can’t - I haven’t done anything, I swear!”

White just rolls her eyes. “It’s not what you think. Today is very important, so just get in there, for goodness’ sake,” she sighs, opening the door to his fucking prison cell.

Franklin begins to drag him towards the room, but he can go fuck himself if he thinks Patrick’s gonna go right back into solitary after four days with no contact with anyone. He  _can’t_ go another fucking week without talking to anyone but himself, worrying himself to insanity. “No,” he says, “I’m not going. You can’t lawfully imprison me for more than twenty-four hours without telling me what the  _fuck_ I’ve done,” he states, glad he googled that particular fact, even if it was just so Pete wouldn’t think he was stupid.

White’s laughter is hysterical, brittle like ceramic on metal, and it is most definitely  _at Patrick._ He hates the colour that floods his cheeks, hates how his wings twitch to wrap around him a little more. Why the fuck can’t he remember the big words, the ones Pete uses?  _Stupid, that’s why._

“Has someone been trying to talk like the adults do?” White coos, and Patrick is sure his face is now on fire.

“Fuck you,” he mumbles, unable to summon any kind of force to the words. Now even  _Franklin_ must think he’s dumb as fuck.

White laughs again, and Patrick curls his fists tightly, imagining what it would feel like to slam one of them into White’s face. Before he can find out, though, she’s opening the door, and Patrick finds himself pushed inside.

The room looks different to how Patrick remembers it; the walls are still white, but they’ve painted over the scratches and the smudges of his blood he left the last time they put him in here. There’s even a chair in the corner, a sad attempt at making this place somewhat less fucking horrifying. He feels suddenly sick, the memories of days spent screaming at endless silence making his stomach turn.

“So, they’ll be here in three hours, where are we with the preparations?” Patrick whips round to see Wan marching through the door, her arms filled with paper. Something must be going on, Wan hardly ever comes anywhere near him. She looks to White for an answer, her eyes gliding over Patrick as if he isn’t there.

White puts on a smile and says a hurried “Yes, yes, we’re nearly ready.”

“Good, well, get on with it then,” Wan says with an equally fake smile. “We need this to go smoothly.”

“What’s going on?” Patrick demands, staring directly at Wan, hoping she’s unsettled enough by him to answer his fucking question.

She doesn’t say anything. Her eyes meet Patrick’s momentarily, but then they simply slide to White. “Get him under control,” she snaps.

Patrick barely even feels the splash of pain in the side of his head as White smacks him, barely hears her hissing at him to be quiet. His mind is too busy trying desperately to find its way around their cryptic words, to separate truth from lie.

“Strip,” White says suddenly, snapping Patrick back to shitty reality.

“What?” he blurts as he realises what the hell she just asked him to do.

“You heard me,” she snarls, already reaching for his jumper. Patrick flinches backwards, shaking his head. They do this often enough before he’s on the table, but never here. Not in front of Wan, in front of Franklin. He won’t do it, not before they tell him what the fuck is happening.

But White gets her way, as she always does, and smirks as Patrick tries his utmost to keep from covering himself. He won’t be ashamed, that’s just what she wants. He keeps telling himself that this is just another of White’s stupid stunts, that it doesn’t bother him. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, he’s got no reason to hide. They all saw him sucking Pete’s dick anyway. He avoids looking at Franklin, even when White’s left the room.

She returns with two interns and a box. The interns are young and coat-clad, and Patrick’s seen them before but doesn’t know their names. They stare when they walk in, and Patrick curls his wings around himself, cheeks burning. He snarls low in the back of his throat, just to see their eyes widen.

They’re not his friends, he knows. They acted like it at first, their mouths dropping open at the sight of his wings, smiling at him. The girl even talked to him, asked him how he was, like they were equals. Now White’s got to them; now they’re wary, now they know he could kill them with two fingers. Now they know he’s beneath them.

When they approach him, it’s with a reel of silver, metallic tape. They grab for his hands and he yanks them out of reach, stumbling backwards into Franklin.

“Just let them, kid,” Franklin says into his ear, his hands closing in a gentle grip over Patrick’s shoulders.

Patrick wants to scream, wants to kick and cry and pounce as they tape his hands together behind his back. He settles for hissing, seeing the way they jump and cower away from him as the sound blazes from his throat. They leave the tape loose; he’ll easily be able to wriggle free, he just has to wait for the right time.

“What have I told you about hissing,” White snaps at him as the interns run back to her like wasps to their queen, “give me that.” She takes the tape from the girl and marches towards Patrick, muttering to herself. Patrick’s heart sinks when he feels her grab his bound wrists and press them together, wrapping more tape around them, impossibly tighter. His escape plan crumbles to the floor as he tries to twist his wrists and the tape doesn’t budge.

When she appears in front of him, spindly fingers tearing off a section of tape, it takes him far too long to realise what she’s going to do. He barely has time to cry out before the tape is pressed over his mouth, sealing his lips shut as the glue bonds to his skin.

He flaps his wings furiously, aiming for her head as he feels himself rise off the ground slightly, the interns scattering. Franklin’s hands grab at his wings as he writhes, kicking and screeching as loud as he can through the tape, the open door beckoning him, taunting him. He manages to give Franklin a strong kick to the shin, but once the man gets an arm around Patrick’s shoulders, he’s pinned in place.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” White drawls, leaning close to Patrick and tapping the tape across his mouth. All Patrick can do is pant furiously in response, desperately trying to get enough air into his lungs through nothing but flared nostrils.

She moves back before he can crack his forehead into her nose. The box is opened, and the interns fuss around it while Patrick thrashes in Franklin’s hold. He tells himself he won’t stop fighting, won’t ever let their jobs become easy, that no amount of pain will make him submit to their fucking regime. He lands another kick to Franklin’s knee, but it’s not quite the right angle to make it snap backwards like Patrick was hoping. White starts back towards Patrick, clutching something in her hands.

“This,” she says, lifting up a greyish ring of - well, of  _something._ It’s dull like rubber but the inside rim shines bright with metal, “has been designed specifically for you.” She opens up the ring and moves closer to him, pure malice in her eyes. “It’s practically indestructible,” she sneers, her hand hovering over his halo as she wraps the thing around his neck, “and it means that if you set a single feather out of line, wherever you are,” something clicks into place and the thing suddenly fits tight and heavy around his throat, “we can punish you.”

Patrick squirms away from her, twisting his head against the collar, growling as loud as he can, watching in horror as she produces a chain from her pocket and fastens it to a loop in the metal. She hooks the other end to a metal ring drilled low in the wall. When he tries to pull forward, his neck jars and he stumbles back into Franklin. White laughs.

“Now,” she says steadily, taking a small black item out of her pocket, “if you decide to cause  _any_ kind of trouble for us, I can do this,” she presses her thumb into the object, and Patrick’s world explodes.

The pain is different to when someone touches his halo; it’s sharper, first biting into his neck and then all across his body, his knees buckling and his jaw ringing with pain. Even when it’s over, he feels himself trembling, feels the residual burning in his neck.

He pulls towards her in a fit of rage, how  _dare_ she, how dare she force this fucking piece of shit on him, he’ll fucking rip her apart this time, he fucking  _swears,_ but he forgets the chain, and has the air knocked out of him all over again. White laughs. He’s going to kill her, someday.

“So,” she says, hovering just out of Patrick’s reach, “you are going to behave, like a good little freak, and maybe then, perhaps, I  _won’t_ fry your nerve endings to oblivion. Do you understand?”

Patrick snarls through the tape, hoping his eyes convey the appropriate degree of  _fuck you._ This earns him a slap and a crippling shock that sends him collapsing to the floor. She looks down at him in disdain.

“Do you understand?” she repeats, nudging his head with her foot as the pain begins to fade.

He doesn’t nod, he won’t. He simply looks away from her, trying to reassemble his crumpled limbs. This seems to be enough.

“We’ll be back soon. Try anything, and you’ll pay. You,” she barks, presumably at Franklin, “take this, keep an eye on him.” She tosses him the object that Patrick assumes controls the shocks.

Wan gives him a rather disgusted glance before she sweeps from the room, White and the interns in tow. When the door slams, Patrick’s insides collapse.

It’s too much. He can’t process it, his mind can’t take the anxiety, the fear, the anger, the pain all at once, the absolute terror that they might have done something to Pete, that what White said might be true. He can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs, he needs to gasp and gulp but the fucking  _tape_ won’t let him, he can hardly move beyond writhing around on the floor, the collar pressing into his windpipe and his vision beginning to split in two.

He lets out a distraught moan, trying to pull his hands from where they’re bound, but every muscle he uses just means he needs more air, air which just isn’t fucking moving fast enough, no matter how much he pulls into his lungs it’s not enough, and now he can barely see past the black spots clouding his eyes. He feels his throat constrict with each wave of panic, and now he can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t hear anything but the pounding of blood in his ears. A distant voice wonders if he’s going to die; another asks whether that would really be so bad.

Hands wrap around him, dragging his body up from the floor and standing him on unsteady feet. He tries to see who it is, but his head lolls and his eyes don’t have the energy to open. In the end, he gives in, resting against the chest in front of him, trying to calm the buzzing in his brain.

“...breathe, kid, you’re okay, just breathe with me, alright, in...out,” the person - Franklin! That’s who it is - says, slow and gentle in Patrick’s ear. He tries to copy the movement of the man’s chest, pushing down the flashes of anger, the desire to claw and tear and wound. In, and out.

For a moment, he lets himself believe that it’s Pete’s arms around him, that this has all been a dream and he’s just woken up in Pete’s bed, to kisses and kind touches. He imagines if he looks up, Pete will smile at him, brush a hand through his hair, press their lips together. Patrick’s chest aches with want.

The air comes easier, though, his throat finally opening and letting him drink in long draughts, his vision swimming back to him. With sight comes the realisation that the grey-clad chest most definitely belongs to Franklin, and the man slowly shifts Patrick away, hands firmly on his shoulders.

“You alright?” he asks, catching Patrick’s dazed gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Patrick nods, shifting his weight from one foot to the other just to check he won’t fall over.

“Listen, kid, I - what’s the matter,” Franklin says, watching Patrick’s eyeline drift to the remote outlined in Franklin’s pocket. He won’t trust anything this fucker says with that thing so near.

Franklin digs his hand into his pocket, and Patrick pulls away from him, eyeing the remote and its proximity to Franklin’s thumb. He shakes his head, he hasn’t  _done_ anything, if Franklin tries to punish him for his panic then he’ll - well. He’ll stand there and take it, won’t he. There’s nothing else he  _can_ do.

But Franklin simply stares at it for a few seconds, then hurls it across the room. It cracks against the wall and tumbles to the polished floor. It doesn’t break, much to Patrick’s dismay, but then it hits him: Franklin’s on his side.

“Alright,” Franklin starts, hands firm on Patrick’s shoulders, “since no-one else has bothered to tell you what’s going on, I will. Some men are gonna come and look at you. They’re not gonna talk to you, or touch you, they’re just gonna look. And all you have to do is let them, okay?”

Patrick looks up into Franklin’s face and sees what else he can decode from the man’s expression; there’s a pity swimming deep in his eyes that Patrick doesn’t like the look of one fucking bit.

“Just stand here, don’t move, and as soon as they leave, you can go back to your room,” Franklin says, and Patrick nods. He can do that. His pride is already ruined, anyway. He stares down at the floor, telling himself he won’t cry.

“Hey,” Franklin says softly, his thumb pushing Patrick’s chin up. Patrick only appreciates the gesture after he’s jerked away from it. “They don’t know what you’re worth. They don’t know what you can do. You gotta  _make_ them know, kid. Between you and me, they’re all  _fucking dickheads,”_ Franklin says with a slight smile, which broadens when he sees Patrick nod furiously.

“Pete’s safe,” Franklin adds suddenly, “I can tell you that for certain. He’s fine.”

Patrick feels some of the tension leave his jaw at that; he can get through anything if Pete’s safe.

As Franklin retreats to the corner and sits himself in the chair, Patrick curls up against the wall, watching the door and waiting for this all to be over.

-

“Get up, get up, they’re coming!” White barks at him, as if he should have been prepared for her sudden and unannounced arrival. He struggles to his feet, instinctively wrapping his wings around himself, staring at the door.

Wan strides in first, with three others in tow. They all look like people on Earth, which is strange; Patrick stares at their suits and ties, their watches. How have they got here? Did they come for Pete?

“Whoa,” one of the people says when their - his? - eyes settle upon Patrick. “You weren’t kidding.” The man’s got very short hair and a very big mouth, with very white teeth sitting inside it. There’s a person with breasts behind him who simply seems to hover, notepad in hand.

He moves closer to Patrick, and Patrick has to fight to stop himself backing away. The man’s eyes flick up and down his body, resting momentarily on his crotch. Patrick feels colour flood his face, and hunches his shoulders a little more, as if that might help.

“This is  _not_ what I was expecting,” the man says, too loudly. In fact, everything he does seems to be too loud for the small room.

“In a good way, or...?” Wan says, keeping her distance but striving for the attention of the man.

Loudmouth hums, looking Patrick up and down again. “It’s a pity it’s not more attractive, you know? For marketing.”

“Yes, well, we could lower its calorie intake, if that’s what’s-”

“No, no, I’m liking the paunch, it adds something - the hair,  _doesn’t._ Shave the chest, armpits, maybe the face, too,  _then_ we’ll have something to work with. What’s with the kinky jewellery?” Loudmouth grins, jabbing a finger at Patrick’s neck.

Wan casts a glance at White, who immediately steps closer to Patrick. “He can be...volatile. But, we hope, with this contraption, we can train that out of him. Here,” she says, handing the man - shit, the remote. Patrick has to fight a little to keep his breathing steady as he watches Loudmouth take the object and play with it like it doesn’t have the ability to cause Patrick unbearable pain. “The highest setting will knock him out.”

“Impressive. Feisty little guy, are you?” the man smirks, and Patrick decides he absolutely hates him. He puts as much venom into his stare as he can possibly muster. This makes Loudmouth’s smirk lessen considerably. “We’ll soon take care of that.”

There’s another man, too, who’s been circling Patrick slowly. He doesn’t say anything, he just looks. It makes Patrick’s skin crawl.

“What’s this then?” Loudmouth barks all of a sudden, and Patrick’s stomach lurches when he looks to see that the man’s pointing at his halo. He jerks backwards, growling low in his throat until he feels a stab of sizzling pain.

“Stay where you are,” White snarls, waving the remote at Patrick. She can get fucked if she thinks Patrick gives a shit, though; this arsehole isn’t getting anywhere near his halo. He curls a wing around his arm, glaring.

“So, Mr. Schmitt,” Wan interjects suddenly, shifting the focus away from Patrick. “Do you think this is something you’d be interested in?”

Loudmouth gives Patrick one more sweeping look, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, obviously I’ll have to consult my team but honestly? This is gonna make both of us a lot of money. People are gonna go nuts,” he smiles, clapping Wan on the back. “What kind of facilities is it gonna need?”

Patrick tries to follow their conversation, but his mind keeps stumbling over the words. Money? What does Wan know about money? That’s a human thing. And these ‘people’, who are they? Humans? Patrick feels a little sick as he contemplates what this all might mean.

He suddenly feels movement behind him; the other man, the shorter, quieter one, stands very near to him.

“Open your wings, my beautiful,” he says into Patrick’s ear. Patrick can feel fingers ghosting over his feathers, and shudders away from them, shaking his head at the man.

“Do what he says,” White hisses. Patrick hates that he can’t hiss back, can’t do anything but relax the muscles in his back and slowly fan out his feathers.

“I won’t hurt you,” the man says, his voice like honey; sticky and difficult to shake off.

He  _doesn’t_  hurt Patrick, for a change, just runs his fingers across Patrick’s wingbones and strokes his hands down Patrick’s feathers, but somehow this is worse than Loudmouth. Patrick steals a glance at Franklin, and sees that the man’s expression is thunderous. Patrick won’t show it, but he’s becoming more terrified by the second.

When the man finally moves away, Loudmouth points another stubby finger at him. “Why the tape?” he asks the room, “it doesn’t bite, does it?” He laughs like it’s an implausible outcome.

“No, no, but it has the tendency to - to forget its place. But we can train it not to talk,” White says, eyes glittering, and Patrick takes a deep breath to somehow satiate the anger.

“Whoa, it can  _talk?!”_ Loudmouth exclaims, clapping his hands together as if the idea that Patrick can put together a coherent sentence is hilarious to him. “Like,  _English?!_ I gotta hear this.”

“I don’t think that’s the best -”

“Come  _on_ ,” the man whines, “make it talk! Make it talk and you’ve got yourselves a deal.”

Wan and White exchange dubious glances that Patrick can’t read; White purses he lips, then moves in front of Patrick.

“Get on your knees,” she says. “I’ll have no funny business.”

Patrick gives her an eye roll, then ducks out of the way of her slap to the head. He sits on the floor and wraps his wings around himself; at least he’s more covered up like this.

It hurts like a motherfucker when White rips the tape off. Patrick can’t be sure but he reckons it takes most of his skin with it, and when the stinging subsides, he tastes blood on his lips.

Loudmouth crouches in front of him, staring at him expectantly. “Well? Go on then, say something.”

Patrick licks his shredded lips carefully, assessing the damage.

“Come on,  _anything!”_

Patrick flexes his jaw slowly, then looks the man right in his stupid face. He chooses his words very carefully.

“Get  _fucked_ , you shit-faced  _cunt,”_ Patrick spits.

The man’s face turns purple. Suddenly, there’s a lot of shouting, mostly at Patrick, and Loudmouth lunges towards him, slamming his forearm across Patrick’s face. It’ll hurt later, definitely, but for now, it just pushes Patrick over the edge.

He surges towards the man with the only weapon he has: his teeth. He catches the man’s arm in his mouth and bites, hard, his canines sinking through the fabric of the man’s jacket and feeling the give of flesh beneath.

Loudmouth cries out, louder than ever, grabs at Patrick’s hair and yells for help, but Patrick just tightens his jaw until he feels the crack of bone between his teeth, and a give that wasn’t there before. The man positively  _screams._

The yelling continues, hands grab at Patrick’s wings, at his shoulders, but he won’t let himself be moved. The collar digs into his neck as someone tries to yank him backwards, and he can hear the man shouting curses at him, trying to prize Patrick’s teeth out of his skin. Patrick only relinquishes his grip when someone’s fingers press into his eyes.

He sits up and is immediately knocked down, feels someone’s boot in his head and in his stomach. He tries to haul himself upright again, his wings flapping furiously, but then there’s pain, bright, blinding white pain, and he only just works out that the person screaming loudest is himself before everything snaps into darkness.

-

Andy can’t quite believe the carnage that he’s met with when he arrives bright and early on Monday morning. He’d been expecting a quiet day, perhaps a chance to get some paperwork done, and at most, a few awkward questions from Patrick about Pete’s whereabouts. Instead, he’s met with the increasingly familiar sound of White yelling at someone.

“...fine! Just  _go,_ I’d have fired you anyway for what you said to him when you thought we weren’t listening!”

“What?” a deeper voice responds, “telling him what he already knows? That everyone here is sadistic and twisted?”

“You do  _not_ have the authority to-”

“Listen, I applied for Head of Security. I was  _not_ told that that job would involve  _torturing_  a  _child._ This whole place is  _sick.”_

“He’s not a child! We don’t know his precise date of birth but he’s certainly over eighteen, we-”

“You really don’t get it, do you? You -”

“What on earth is going on?” Andy asks as he crosses the threshold of White’s office. White’s sitting in her swivel chair with her arms tightly crossed and her face even more so; Franklin’s face is red from shouting.

Franklin speaks before White can. “Oh, here he is! The man himself. So, do you regularly practice Soviet torture methods on innocent children? Or is that more of a weekend thing?”

Andy raises his eyebrows, flicking his gaze towards White. “Fill me in?”

White sighs, running fingers through her hair. “We had the potential investors visitation on Saturday.”

This is news to Andy. They’d  _talked_ about that, sure, but they’d never agreed to anything. “Without me? Were you authorised to-”

“I’m sorry, who’s the most senior member of staff in this room? I think you’ll find the board  actively encouraged the decision.”

“Of  _course_ they bloody did,” Franklin seethes, “here,” - he throws his gun onto White’s desk. “I’m leaving. Think yourself lucky I waited this long.”

So now Andy’s got to waste more of his precious time finding a new head of security. Brilliant.

“Listen, you,” Franklin says to Andy on his way out the door. He catches Andy’s collar in a loose yet still slightly threatening hold. Andy shifts uncomfortably. “If you’ve got any human left in you, for God’s sake, help him. He’s been in there for two days, just - go to him, or  _something._ Tell him the bloody truth for once. Oh, and both of you can rot in hell.”

With that, he marches out of the room. Andy watches him leave, pushing down the niggling guilt in his skull. He turns to White. “What happened, then?” She looks tired; it’s bad.

She throws him a bitter smile. “He broke Schmitt’s arm.”

“ _What?!”_

“Yes. The idiot wanted to hear him talk, insisted we remove the gag.”

“You gagged him?”  _Was that really necessary?_

“You know what he’s like.  _Anyway,_ Schmitt was rushed off to hospital, I’ve been up to my ears in paperwork, but the good news is, he still wants to follow through. I think seeing the kid behind bars might give him some satisfaction; he’s not the only one. The collar worked a treat, though.”

A chill runs down Andy’s spine. “You - you actually got that approved?”

White nods, a glint of pride touching her eyes. Andy frowns at a ring of tea stain on her desk. “Where is he?”

“Solitary,” she muses, chewing on a pen as she shuffles the papers in front of her.

“Since Saturday?” Andy says, “isn’t that a bit -”

“He savaged a client, I think he deserves it,” White says flatly.

Andy nearly opens his mouth to tell her why she’s wrong, they both know what solitary does to him, they both know that it’ll slowly erode his sanity until he really is just a wild animal, but he decides against it. “Can I see him?”

White rolls her eyes at him. “Of course not. He's being punished, he needs to understand that. You need to start wading through the mess he's made; Schmitt’s lot were this far from suing.”

Andy nods, keeping his face carefully blank until he’s safely in his office. Patrick’s violent, sure, but only when provoked. Which makes him wonder what they did to provoke him.

He manages to distract himself until lunchtime. Then he heads towards solitary.

It’s dark in the room, of course it is. Of course White saw fit to lock Patrick up in the dark. The door guides the outside light, throwing it into the corner of the room, where a bundle of feathers is huddled. The bundle stirs, groans at the sudden light. Then it scrambles towards Andy, only stopping when the chain pulls it back. Andy purses his lips, and turns on the light.

Patrick looks awful. His wings are scruffy, the feathers sticking out at odd angles, others strewn across the floor. There’s blood smeared over him from some wound Andy can’t make out; his hair is matted and his eyes red as they squint towards Andy, his body straining against the chain. He’s making noise behind the tape over his mouth, crying out for help. Andy sighs.

The boy’s eyes are wild as Andy crouches down to face him, his wings moving erratically. He screams when Andy pulls the tape off, and the top layer of Patrick’s skin with it, blood welling up on his lips faster than Andy can dab at with a tissue.

“Andy,” Patrick cries, his voice ragged from days without use, “Andy, they - they put me in here and I don’t know what I did, Andy, I don’t understand, I can’t fucking take it, Andy, - I - I -”

“Shh,” Andy breathes, reaching for the tape binding Patrick’s hands, letting the boy lean against him. Once his hands are free, Patrick rubs his eyes, still attempting to adjust to the light, then cups his bleeding mouth. “I’m sorry, Patrick,” Andy says, sitting back on his heels and watching the kid assess his various injuries.

Patrick looks at Andy’s idle hands, then touches his fingers to the collar at his throat. “Get it off,” he croaks.

“I can’t. White said-”

“Get it  _off_ me, Andy!” Patrick cries, clawing at the plastic.

“I  _can’t,_ Patrick, if I could I would,” Andy huffs, folding his arms.

Patrick screams, shrill and desperate, his fingers still desperately scraping at his neck, his body twisting and turning as if that might help. He’s never looked more like an animal. “ _Please,_ Andy!” he shouts, like it’s a magic word, “get it  _off!_ Please!”

Andy shakes his head. “No. I can’t.” The boy’s eyes meet Andy’s briefly, desperate and begging, before he screeches again, rattling the chain and pulling at the collar. Andy leans forward and catches his hands, because the only thing the kid’s damaging is his own neck. His fingers shake in Andy’s hold.

When his breaths come easier, he meets Andy’s gaze. “What’s going on? Who were those people?”

Andy so nearly lies. But he remembers what Franklin said. “They - uh, well. They want to take you somewhere else. And - uh, display you. For people to look at.”

Confusion flashes across Patrick’s face. “Why?”

“Because you’re special,” Andy says, the same excuse he’s fed to Patrick before every instance of torture.

“Are those people humans?” the boy asks, still clutching onto Andy’s hands.

“Yes, they are.”

“Are you human,” he says quietly, wide eyes scanning Andy’s face. Andy breathes a deep breath, and nods.

The distress that flares up in Patrick’s eyes is enough to make even Andy feel guilty; he drops Andy’s hands and pushes him away, shuffling back towards the wall.

“I’m sorry we lied, Patrick,” Andy offers, as if any kind of apology would be enough.

“Am I human?” the boy asks, staring at his own bloodied hands.

“No. You’re an angel. We took you to Earth when you were a baby.” It’s not as hard to say as Andy envisaged. Patrick doesn’t react beyond frowning at the floor.

“Do I have parents?” he asks, eyeing Andy as he pulls his wings around himself.

“Yes. We never saw your father, though.”

“What about my mum?” There’s so much hope in Patrick’s eyes, a light that wasn’t there before. But Andy’s committed to telling him the truth.

“She’s dead. They shot her.”

The hope vanishes as quickly as it came. The boy’s lips part, but no words emerge. Andy tries not to think about the amount of trouble White is going to make for him for giving the game away. 

Patrick shivers and pulls his knees to his chest; it’s cold in the room, even to Andy’s clothed body. He shrugs off his lab coat and tosses it to the boy.

“Have you eaten?” Andy asks, watching Patrick huddle under the coat. “Please don’t get blood on that.”

Patrick shakes his head. Of course he hasn’t, White’s not that kind. Andy huffs and gets to his feet, heading for the door. “I’ll go and get you some food,” he says, when Patrick looks up in panic. “I’ll come back.”

There’s no vitamin mix prepared in the storeroom, though, and Patrick will start to get agitated if he doesn’t return soon, so Andy simply grabs the only thing in his mini-fridge that he didn’t eat at lunchtime: an apple. It breaks every rule they have, but the game’s over now. After eighteen years, he’s been honest with the boy. White’s going to fire him, probably, and Patrick will have one less person who gives a damn about him in his life.

Patrick’s eyes light up when he sees the apple. He bites into it like - well, like he’s been starved for two days. He eats it quickly and quietly, core and all, then curls tighter towards the wall.

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” Andy says again, half wanting the boy to shout and scream; the silence is excruciating.

“Where’s Pete?” the boy asks suddenly, and bloody hell, it’s becoming a damn catchphrase.

“He’s gone, Patrick. He left. We told him what was going on, and he left,” Andy states.

“Can I see him?” Patrick says quietly. He must be fooling himself to think to ask that question.

“No. Try to forget about him.”

“So I’ll never see him again?”

“He’s gone. He’s not coming back.”

Patrick growls at that, slamming his fist into the wall once, twice. Andy reaches and catches his wrist before he lands the third punch. “But I love him,” Patrick says, wide eyes accusatory and pleading, as if Andy can make this situation any better.

“You don’t know what love is, Patrick,” Andy sighs, settling against the wall next to the boy. Patrick turns away from him, his wings reaching to cover his face. After a few moments, Andy hears quiet sniffs from underneath the feathers.

He takes a deep breath, and gives Patrick’s wing a soft stroke with the back of his hand. “Come on, Patrick. It’ll be alright.”

Despite everything, the lies and the crippling truths, Patrick leans into the touch. Andy almost smiles; there was a time when Patrick would do nearly anything for a hug from Andy. As Patrick turns and grabs at Andy’s forearms, Andy’s reminded of the small child with wings far too big for him snuggling under the covers for a bedtime story, or running into Andy’s arms after bumping his head on the counter - or being beaten by the guards for talking back.

It's not fair; Andy knows this. Andy knows it's all wrong, that it's nothing like what he thought he'd be doing when he signed up for a career in science. He thought he'd be curing cancer or discovering a new species, not abusing some helpless teenager and catching his tears afterwards. Crying seems to be about the only thing that Patrick does quietly; he barely makes a sound as the tears roll down his face and onto Andy's shirt, his hands clinging tight to Andy's sides. His wings are wrapped around both of them, beautiful even in the clinical light. He's amazing, a miracle of nature, even if no-one's ever told him. 

Andy holds him close as he cries, shushing him softly and pulling the coat over his shoulders, hoping that this is just a sudden outpouring, rather than a display of giving up. All things said, Andy doesn’t quite know what he’d do if Patrick stopped making smartass comments, stopped swearing at everyone he meets.  _This_ Patrick, this broken creature crying for his dead mother and his absent love, is not one that he can justify hurting.

Andy waits until Patrick falls asleep, then takes the coat from around him, binds his hands and places a strip of tape over his mouth. Andy knows how to wipe the security footage; White will never know.

 

He gets to his feet, turns out the light, and closes the door behind him.  


	19. They've Tied You a Tether (And I've Reached the End of Mine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Long time no see! haaahaha...ha... (please don't kill me) 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, each comment makes the next chapter come quicker! And boy, what a chapter it'll be...
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy xx

 Pete spends seven days at his mother’s house before he finally plucks up the courage to go home. He cries when he leaves, as if he hasn’t done enough of that already. His mum has run out of things to say to him; she knows how hopeless the situation is, she knows neither of them can do anything to change it. She can’t tell Pete to move on, so she simply tells him to keep going. And that’s exactly what he tries to do.

 

When he creeps through his front door, he’s met with a pile of his own belongings, all things he left behind in - at the lab. He tries not to look at it, to think about those people coming into his house.

 

It’s so quiet. Pete’s become too used to Patrick’s background noise, his constant scuffling, the rustle of his feathers. The way he’d always appear in the hallway five seconds after Pete got in the door. But no matter how long Pete stares, the hall remains empty.

 

There’s a strange smell coming from Pete’s kitchen, so Pete blindly follows it, clinging to the distraction. He gags when he sees it - the rotting tomatoes on his kitchen counter, the mould-covered fruit in the bowl. He avoids looking at the dead flowers in the vase, the ones he bought Patrick when he learned that the boy had never seen roses before.

 

Pulling on his marigolds, Pete gingerly disposes of the decomposing dead things, shoving the infected dishes into the washing up bowl and turning on the tap. His mum told him to keep busy; might as well start right now.

 

He watches the bubbles rise, telling himself that this is just a normal day. He’s washing up, just like normal, just like he was three months ago before - well. Before. Things are back to the way they were, he’s finally got his life back, it’s just what he’s wanted. Then he sees the tea.

 

He relives that horrific morning in a split second; the gun pressed tight to the back of his neck, the dread in his stomach as he was dragged up the stairs towards exactly what those men came for. Patrick’s cries as they pounced on him, the way they’d squeezed his mouth shut and stomped on his wings. The fact that Pete did nothing to stop them.

 

But perhaps even more memorable were the moments before all that. The feeling of Patrick’s arms around him, the tranquillity of that one, precious morning. The excitement Pete had felt when he’d poured two cups of tea instead of one. Now both still sit, stone cold and sour smelling, next to Pete’s kettle.

 

The washing up bowl is overflowing with bubbles by now, so Pete rushes to turn the water off and begins to scrub. If he’s crying, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He’s just got to keep going.

 

It’s fair to say he falters a little bit when he finally brings himself to look upstairs - staunchly ignoring the bullet hole in his landing wall, who _knows_ what he’ll do about that - and sees the bed that they both should have been sleeping in for the last two weeks. The covers are spilling everywhere and there’s faint boot-prints on the sheets, but he picks up the pillow anyway, presses his nose to it in the hope that there’s some faint proof of Patrick. There isn’t - it just smells of dust.

 

Pete finds, however, that the t-shirt on his bedroom floor _does_ smell of Patrick, and so do the crumpled jeans. Then, he finds a feather wedged in amongst the covers and the tears fall all over again. He wishes he’d known the importance of that morning, he wishes he’d woken Patrick and kissed him hard and told him how beautiful he was, just to be sure he knew. He hates that Patrick might not know that.

 

He puts all the sheets in the wash, and Patrick’s clothes, too. He puts the feather in his bedside drawer. He sighs at the bullet hole, then empties out his fridge of anything particularly shrivelled, and then he sits on the couch and stares at the blank television.

 

A sharp mew snaps him out of his stupor - Sam stares at him from the other end of the room, looking grumpy and distinctly thinner. Pete’s never been more relieved to see the cat; he pats his lap, begging for forgiveness with his eyes, and after a few seconds of haughty staring, the cat slinks towards him, rubbing himself against Pete’s legs and eventually jumping into Pete’s lap.

 

“God, I’ve missed you,” Pete says as he scratches behind Sam’s ears, stroking from the top of his head to the tip of his tail. The cat mews softly, nuzzling into Pete’s chest, then settles in his lap, green eyes blinking up at him.

 

Maybe Pete’s reading into it more than he should, but Sam’s _looking_ for something, his eyes surveying the room, then shifting back to Pete, like Pete has any of the answers.

 

“He’s not here,” Pete says quietly, running a thumb over the cat’s ears. “He’s not coming back.”

 

Sam simply looks away from him.

 

-

 

Mikey is very good in bed. Pete had nearly forgotten that, but he’s remembering now, as another moan spills from his lips as the man slams into him over and over. He’s doing all the right things, kissing Pete’s neck and biting in all the places he knows Pete likes, he’s got _just_ the right angle and _just_ the right rhythm, he’ll give Pete one hell of an orgasm and everything in Pete’s life will magically fall into place.

 

At least, that was the logic behind calling him.

 

It’s been years since they tried the whole _relationship_ bullshit; it was clear pretty fast that they had no desire to be together romantically, so Mikey became Pete’s emergency fuck, his safety net when he had no-one else to turn to. Pete swore, after last time, that he’d never do this again, never use Mikey like this, but here they are, lips crashing like waves, like cars. Even as he’s tipped over the edge, the anticipation of regret gnaws at Pete’s mind. Mikey being here also means Mikey leaving.

 

He lays there panting as Mikey finishes, the drive of his hips sending jolts of pain through Pete’s spine. Pete supposes he deserves it; he is, albeit vaguely, aware that Mikey is in a relationship now. A relationship they both just ruined.

 

When Mikey collapses beside Pete, he’s not smiling like normal. He doesn’t throw an arm around Pete and let him cuddle up, even though he knows it’s almost Pete’s favourite part. Instead, he glares a hole in the ceiling, ignores Pete’s pawing at his arm, ignores Pete’s happy sighs, his prompts for Mikey to tell him how good he was, like normal.

 

“Why d’you do this to me, Pete,” Mikey sighs, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Pete feels panic seize up in his chest.

 

“Wha - where are you going?” he exclaims, propping himself up on his elbows and watching Mikey shove his underwear back on.

 

“I’m going back to the flat I share with my boyfriend, who I _love,_ and I’m going to tell him what we just did, and he’s going to break up with me,” Mikey states, scowling anywhere but Pete.

 

“But you always stay,” Pete whines. That’s what makes Mikey Pete’s last resort - he always stays for at least one night, he always fills a little bit of the emptiness, but then he goes away again, ripping the void open a little wider each time.

 

Mikey scoffs, finally looking Pete in the eyes, his t-shirt crumpled in his hand. “And you always say it’s the last time. Why d’you always have to screw me over?”

 

“Hey, you could’ve said no,” Pete says indignantly. _Pete’s_ not the one who’s just cheated on his boyfriend. At least, not quite.

 

“Oh, yeah, and let you guilt-trip me. _But Mikey, I’m dying, Mikey, this might be the last time I sleep with anyone, please, Mikey, please,”_ he mocks, his face turning sour.

 

Pete feels his cheeks burn. “I didn’t say that,” he mumbles. Not out loud, anyway.

 

“When are you gonna realise that you can’t found a relationship on pity?” Mikey spits, and boy, does that hurt.

 

“You pity me?”

 

Mikey stares at him. “Don’t tell me that’s news to you. Why the hell do you think I’m here?”

 

“Because you like fucking me?”

 

Pete watches Mikey’s face crease in exasperation. “So? You’re young and up for it, _everyone_ likes fucking you! I’m here because I got a phone call from my sobbing, dying ex-fuck buddy saying that he needed company. I should’ve learnt to say no to you by now,” he chides himself, wrestling his jumper over his head as Pete tries not to cry.

 

 _Pity._ He fucking hates that word. And now the one person he thought he could count on has slapped him in the face with it. Apparently, he’s not worth anyone’s time unless he’s dying.

 

“What’s happened, then?” Mikey asks, his voice a little softer than before.

 

“What do you mean,” Pete sulks, not looking at the other man.

 

Mikey huffs, but sits himself at the end of the bed. “Come on, something must’ve happened. That’s what we do, isn’t it? We fuck, we sleep, you tell me what shit your life is, then I leave. So what is it now? The cancer again?”

 

Pete shakes his head. It’s always the cancer, but only as background noise. “Uh...just - this guy.”

 

“Whoa, you met a guy? A guy you actually felt things for?” Mikey laughs bitterly, but his smile drops when Pete throws him a glare. “What’s his name?”

 

“Uh...Patrick,” Pete says, hating the way the name feels in his mouth.

 

“He dumped you?”

 

Pete shakes his head. That scenario is about as likely as Sam learning to fly.

 

“Oh, so you dumped him, and now you’re regretting it,” Mikey nods, as if he’s got Pete all figured out. To his credit, he’s not far off. “What’s he like?”

 

Flopping back on the bed, Pete tries to think how to sum up Patrick in a single word. He fails.

 

“Okay, let me guess, he’s your usual. Tall, dark, breathtakingly handsome, a spitting image of yours truly, really,” Mikey grins as Pete laughs at him.

 

“Nah. He’s - the opposite. He’s short and chubby and ginger.” Even thinking about him makes Pete smile. And ache a little, too. He decides not to mention Patrick’s eight-foot wingspan.

 

“Whoa, the great Pete Wentz is going out with a fat guy? Stop the press,” Mikey says, but the suggestion of present tense hurts worse than the insult. “I’m kidding,” he adds, when Pete frowns.

 

“I like it,” Pete shrugs, “he’s adorable.” He tries not to think about how warm Patrick was; how lovely it was to wrap his arms around Patrick’s soft middle and bury his face in Patrick’s chest.

 

Mikey just raises his eyebrows. “He must be a pro in the bedroom, then?”

 

Pete just shakes his head. “We haven’t - didn’t. He hadn’t - before. Y’know?”

 

“So let me get this straight,” Mikey says flatly, “you’re the whore of London, you could have anyone at the drop of a hat, but when you finally fall in love it's with some chubby virgin? Do I know you?”

 

“I’m not in _love_ with him, I just -”

 

“Oh, come on, you’re totally heartbroken! You’ve got a face like a slapped arse!”

 

Said face is quickly hidden in Pete’s hands as he contemplates whether or not Mikey is right. “It was just supposed to be a stupid - it wasn’t supposed to - ugh,” Pete groans, grabbing one of the pillows and hugging it to his chest. Part of him wants Mikey to leave - he desperately wants to wash the stickiness from his thighs and hide in his bed for a few hours - but part of him can’t bear the thought of it.

 

“What happened?” Mikey says in his therapist voice. Somehow, they always get to that question.

 

Pete pauses to think how he can best put this without also having to explain the existence of supernatural beings to Mikey. “Uh - his - parents. They pretty much told me I couldn’t see him ever again, or they’d - well, I dunno.”

 

“Fuck,” Mikey breathes. “So you just left? Just like that?”

 

“Well, yeah, I mean, they sort of threatened me,” he says, wishing he could tell Mikey the truth. But this is close enough.

 

“What, so he didn’t stop loving you?”

 

“No,” Pete says, hoping that’s still the case, even after Pete shouted the walls down. Shouted _at_ Patrick, who’d done absolutely nothing wrong. _God,_ he’s a terrible person.

 

“And...you still love him, obviously,” Mikey reasons, waving a hand at Pete like his very appearance is of someone in love.

 

“Well, I don’t-” Pete begins to protest, but Mikey cuts him off.

 

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” he says, gesticulating wildly. “Why are you calling up your exes demanding pity fucks when you’ve got eloping to do?!”

 

“It’s not that simple,” Pete sighs, because it really, _really_ isn’t.

 

“So, you’re just gonna give up?” Mikey says, rolling his eyes. “How very _Pete Wentz.”_

 

Pete opens his mouth to object, but the flash of hurt in Mikey’s eyes makes him snap it shut again.

 

“He must’ve had some rotten luck, falling in love with you,” Mikey sighs, running a hand through his hair and a knife through Pete’s internal organs.

 

He's right, though. Patrick could have had so much more. He could have found someone who'd fight for him, who'd be brave enough to do more than wallow, who'd admit to loving him back. Instead, he got Pete. Pete curls in on himself a little more.

 

He doesn't see Mikey out. He imagines, briefly, the look on Mikey's boyfriend's face when he's told he's been cheated on. It's not so different to the look he imagines on Patrick's face when he's told Pete's left him. He quickly stops imagining.

 

-

 

Work is hell.

 

No-one questions him as to why he was away, or what he was doing, but he can see it on their faces, in their fake smiles. Joe doesn't eat his bagel in Pete's office anymore. Pete is reminded how utterly crushing it is to find himself this lonely again.

 

He wishes he'd never tasted it, he decides. He wishes he'd never known what it was to have someone call him up at work just to ask him how his day was going, or to simply natter down the line about how _it's so cool how you're the other side of town but this machine makes it seem like you're right here._ He wishes he'd never met that stupid kid at the store.

 

November sinks into December, and Pete breaks down the first time he hears _Lonely This Christmas_ humming through the radio, his visions of he and Patrick curled on the sofa watching _It's A Wonderful Life_ swimming before his eyes. He wanted so badly to see Patrick's face light with amazement at the sights and the smells and the tastes of Christmas, to drape tinsel from his wings and feed him mince pies and kiss him silly under the mistletoe.

 

He lets strangers fuck him whilst he lays there and hopes that this one might be the one to replace Patrick. There's a couple who want to see him again, who look at him with something more than just lust, but none of them have sparks in their eyes or fire on their tongues. Everyone else is greyscale now that Pete's seen what true colour looks like.

 

Christmas is spent with his mum, as usual; they miss dad most this time of year, miss how he used to make the crispiest roast potatoes and sing tipsy carols for the whole street to hear. The day is characterised by absence, and it gnaws at the festivities like frost at their fingers. It gets a little easier when Pete's grandparents join them; furious games of Trivial Pursuit distract them from the hole in the celebrations, and the grief becomes secondary to the desire to hurl the roast chestnuts at his grandmother's face.

 

It always comes back to Patrick, though. Pete hopes beyond anything that he's alright, that maybe White might have taken Christmas off, that someone gives him a gift or even just a hug. The thought of Patrick locked up in some cell of a room all by himself is enough to bring tears to Pete's eyes; he tells himself they can't have done that, they won't have done that. It keeps him vaguely sane.

 

It's the 2nd of January when the news breaks.

 

Pete wakes up to an internet full of chaos and a TV that won't shut up, to blog headlines and YouTube footage and radio reports so shrill that even the neighbourhood dogs can't ignore it.

 

Pete knows something is wrong when he first rolls over in bed and picks up his phone to see five missed calls from his mum, and several texts telling him to turn on BBC One. He goes straight to his newsfeed, and chokes at what he sees. 

 

_The Angel of London: Natural History Museum Announces Newest Exhibit_

 

Pete feels his jaw go slack. It's everywhere; _Science's Best Kept Secret Revealed_ and _Hoax or Fact? What We Know About the Angel_ and _"The Angel is Real" Insist Experts._

 

Pete's thumbs are shaking when he finally taps one. The words swim on the page as he tries to focus.

 

_2 January 2017 11:19 / Science & Environment _

 

_Natural History Museum Unveils "Angel", Claims It's A "New Species"_

 

_Rumours have been circulating for weeks over what exactly the museum planned to present to the public in the new year; earlier in December, curator Mark Adams hinted at an " exciting acquisition" for their January exhibition and promised that it "would certainly not disappoint". _

 

_At 9 am this morning, the museum published this piece advertising the exhibit - and revealing a winged creature which they claimed to be an "angel". Recently released photos show large white wings protruding from the creature's back, and while rumours of a hoax circulate, primatologist Alejandro Estrada insists that the creature is "the biggest scientific discovery of the century" and is "most certainly real." _

 

_According to a statement from the creature's handler, Prof. S. White, it has been "raised in captivity" all its life and is "finally ready to be revealed to the public." This has already sparked anger - many have expressed concerns over whether the scientific community should be permitted to keep information such as this confidential to the public. "This is certain to provoke discussions as to the effectiveness of the Freedom of Information Act," says Streatham MP Chuka Umunna, "those privy to this have a lot to answer for." _

 

_It is not clear yet where the creature has originally come from; the Museum promises that further information will be released, along with accompanying research papers. The exhibition will be open to the public on Monday the 9th._

 

_By Paul Rincon_

_BBC Science Editor_

 

Pete reads it twice over. Then he flings himself out of bed and hurtles down the stairs, phone in hand as he slams the TV on and scrabbles for BBC News.

 

"...science correspondent Jonathan Amos, who is in the exhibition hall itself - Jonathan," the reporter blares from her seat in the studio, before the camera switches to a middle-aged man in a suit holding a microphone. Behind him, there stands a large, glass enclosure.

 

"Thanks, Fiona. Today marks an important day for the science community - and indeed the rest of the world - as the Natural History Museum unveils its first live exhibit. It's a secret kept for nearly twenty years - hidden in the bowels of laboratories right here in London - but finally, it's here for public viewing; the winged creature that even the experts are calling an angel."

 

Pete hits the word _mum_ in his contacts. She picks up after two rings.

 

"Have you seen the news?" is the first thing she says.

 

"Yeah," Pete croaks, his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him.

 

Neither knows what to say. Pete can hear the same news report filtering down the line.

 

The camera pans slightly to the left, following the newsreader as he walks towards the enclosure. It's built in the corner of the room, two white walls and two glass. Inside, there's a collection of plants, rocks and general mock-scenery, the floor cushioned with about a foot of earth.

 

"...a little difficult to swallow for the general public, but with papers and studies being finally disclosed, it's becoming more difficult to reach any other conclusion. If we look closer..."

 

Pete's stomach drops as the camera moves towards a flicker of white behind a rock. No matter how much Pete shakes his head, though, it's not long before the feathers are clear to see, and the cameraperson zooms in on a figure huddled between the rock and the wall.

 

Patrick's eating something from a metal bowl with his hands, his head bowed and his wings wrapped around himself. He sits with his knees to his chest, bare apart from a grubby white loincloth like some sick costume. Pete waits with bated breath for him to look at the camera; he wants to see Patrick's face, just to check, to prove that he's not dreaming this.

 

"So, as we can see, the creature looks remarkably human," the newsreader says quietly, as if Patrick's some easily scared rodent, "and this is what's been sparking discussion - can something from supposedly _another world_ really look so similar to us? And what might this mean for religious groups?"

 

It's at this moment that Patrick turns his head and sees the camera, and Pete's anxiety levels peak. He looks...okay. His hair's a mess, but there's no bruises on his face, no new marks. But then, Pete remembers, there wouldn't be, would there? All evidence of trauma disappears from Patrick's skin as quickly as it comes. They could be beating him every day and he'd have nothing to show for it. Pete blinks back a rush of tears.

 

He expects Patrick to hide. But Patrick just stares.

 

It's all there in his eyes. He's not frowning, but he's angrier than Pete's ever seen him, a storm raging on his face as his gaze bores into the lens, intense enough to make even the reporter shut up. It's the camera that looks away first.

 

Pete can hear his mother breathing through the phone, and can't bring himself to say anything. He can't begin to comprehend how Patrick, _his_ Patrick, has been outed to the world, how there's millions of people currently ogling him, passing judgement on him. Pete's run his fingers through that hair, been wrapped up in those wings, kissed those lips that are now set in a hard line, devoid of their usual curious smile.

 

He listens to the reporter point out Patrick's halo with a burning rage in his chest; it feels like a violation as the camera zooms in on it, showing it to the country like it's a pretty piece of jewellery rather than a living, feeling part of Patrick.

 

By the time the report comes to a close, Patrick's gone back to eating, his back to the glass and a different camera crew swooping in to take their own piece of Patrick's privacy.

 

Pete blinks as the reporter hands back to the studio, and feels hot tears fall down his face. "That poor boy," his mother says quietly, "that poor, poor boy."

 

"What do we do," Pete croaks, a sinkhole opening in his chest.

 

His mum is silent for a long few moments, and when she finally does speak, Pete knows exactly what she's going to say. "I don't think there's anything we _can_ do."

 

She's right. Neither of them will be allowed in the exhibition before next week. Even then, even if Pete goes to see Patrick, even if it makes Patrick immeasurably happy to know that Pete still cares, who's to say that Patrick won't be punished? Who's to say that Patrick hasn't grown to hate Pete after two months?

 

Pete's been trying to move on for so long. It'd be a shame to give up the effort at this stage.

 

 

 

Pete spends the next week alternating between steadfastly not caring about Patrick, and obsessively combing the internet for new videos, new photographs as if they might lead him to some sort of solution. He has to know _everything,_ he has a right to, and he's hit with waves of possessiveness each time he sees someone express their stupid fucking opinion of Patrick in their stupid fucking YouTube comment. Patrick is _his,_ not theirs.

 

It's all anyone can talk about, and Pete seethes, snapping at his co-workers when they ask if he's heard the news, glaring at the headlines, at anyone who thinks they know anything about him.

 

 _It's obviously capable of thinking for itself, it looks so human_ , some people are arguing _, that cage is nowhere near big enough_.

 

 _Just because it looks human, doesn't mean it's anything like us. It doesn't seem very intelligent, all it does it sit around_ , others rant on forum threads.

 

Pete hates every single one of them. He knows that some are as outraged as he is about the conditions, the degradation, he knows that PETA has reared its ugly head and the RSPCA its prettier one, but he still hates them. They all treat Patrick like an animal, like he can't do things for himself, like he's some innocent bunny rabbit rather than an intelligent and creative individual.

 

Because for all its _freedom of information,_ the reports and papers and dissertations all omit one very important detail: Patrick can talk.

 

Nowhere on the internet has Pete found anything that describes Patrick communicating in any way with humans. One source describes him as being able to 'imitate gestures and sounds', but that was all. Pete's not sure what that collar around Patrick's neck is for, but he'll bet anything it's being used to threaten him into silence. They've managed to cut away all of Patrick's power and reduce him to a voiceless beast. Pete spends a good deal of time sobbing over that fact.

 

 

When the exhibition opens, Pete fights tooth and nail for a ticket. He's not sure why, though; when the day finally arrives, he can hardly bring himself to walk out the door. What's he going to do? Kiss Patrick through the glass, get them both up to their balls in questions? He'd no doubt make the news, make a name for himself as some pervert who fraternises with animals.

 

But he has to see. He _has_ to look for himself, register what they've made of his lover. _Ex-_ lover.

 

It's so much worse than what he'd imagined.

 

The enclosure itself is alright; or it would be, in a different context. It's bigger than it looked on camera, lighter and more varied. Pete keeps his distance, letting the crowds behind him surge ahead, letting them push to the face of the glass and stare. _That's_ what makes it so disgusting.

 

Pete watches as people discard all trace of humanity to go and bang on the glass, to point and beckon and make stupid noises like they're calling a dog to heel. Pete hovers behind them, can't bring himself to search for the trace of feathers they're all cooing over. There's still reporters pushing to the front of the crowd, cameras picking random people to interview as if they could possibly contribute anything other than stupidity.

 

He sits on a bench at the side of the room for twenty minutes, just watching. It's somehow comforting to be in the same room as Patrick, to know he's closer than he's been in months. But then Pete remembers that they're not in the same room at all; Patrick's in a cage.

 

At 1pm, just when Pete's thinking about leaving without torturing himself with the sight of Patrick, a man appears inside the enclosure with a big orange bucket. Pete notices that the crowd has thickened, and stands up for a better view. It's only when the man bangs his fist against the bucket that Pete realises, with bile in his throat, that it's feeding time.

 

Between people's heads, Pete sees Patrick emerge from wherever he's been hiding. He's all wings at first, shielding himself in feathers, and Pete feels his chest tighten at the sight of him. Patrick's face remains blank as he glances around at the people, then begins to crawl over to the pile of food the man's dumped on the floor in the middle of the enclosure. The crowd _ooh_ as he stretches his wings out, and Pete bites his lip in an attempt to stop the tears.

 

Patrick doesn't look up as he reaches out a hand and starts to eat. He takes a handful of the strange brown pellets and eats them one by one, his head bowed and his hair falling across his face. Pete longs to tuck the strands behind his ears. People chatter excitedly, pushing for a better view.

 

When Pete thinks he's past the worst of it, the man bangs the bucket once again, and produces a grubby football from amongst the foliage. He picks it up and throws it in Patrick's direction. It bounces past him, and he throws it a glance - then goes right back to eating. The man bangs the bucket again. He looks annoyed. He bangs the bucket once more, and Patrick still doesn't react.

 

That's when Pete sees it. It's only a little flick of the man's wrist, but Pete notices a button being pressed and a split second later, Patrick's face squeezes in pain beneath his fringe, his shoulders tensing and his wings jolting where they're pooled around Patrick's legs. A moment passes, then Patrick drops his hands to the floor and makes for the ball. When he finally throws it back, the man encourages applause from the crowd.

 

There's a brief moment where Patrick's gaze flits around his audience; a moment when he's so close to spotting Pete that Pete ducks behind the nearest person like he's been burned.

 

But the worst thing, the thing that eventually drives Pete out of the room in a rush of falling tears and stuttering breaths, is the look in Patrick's eyes. They're _dead._ They're empty of all life, all boundless curiosity, all the things that made him _Patrick._ There's no sparkle anymore, no glitter of wit. Pete hurries from the room, not looking back, trying desperately to hold it together until he makes it to the exit, hoping the winter air will blow the tears away. It doesn't.

 

He takes no notice of the strange looks he gets from tourists, from camera crews, from the group of tired-looking protesters gathered around the steps - he just covers his mouth with his sleeve and sobs, trying to find his way with blurred vision. He finally finds a relatively secluded bench in the museum's dead-looking gardens, and collapses onto it, doubling over and crying harder than he has in years.

 

He cries for the agony of it all, his inability to do anything at all to make things better; he cries for the injustice, the absolute horrors that Patrick's been subjected to, the cruelty with which he's been treated. He cries for the fact that he's finally realised how completely in love with Patrick he is at the exact moment he realised how completely impossible it is to ever be with him.

 

 _It's over,_ he thinks as he stares up at the museum, _they've won._

 

-

 

It's not over.

 

Pete's had a week of dozing during the day and lying awake at night, crying into packets of crisps and ignoring texts when his mum finally calls.

 

He's expecting to be chided - he knows he's blocked her out, blocked everyone out in favour of wrapping himself in blankets and hibernating in bed, but instead, she shrieks his name down the phone so shrilly that Pete nearly falls off the couch.

 

"Put the bloody news on!" she says, and Pete groans. He's had enough of the news, he's too scared of seeing Patrick again, of feeling his heart break again. He's getting better, so he tells himself.

 

"What's happened now," Pete sighs, reaching for the remote all the same.

 

"That boy is a _genius,"_ his mother asserts, and Pete feels his heart leap, his fingers jumping to the buttons as he curses the TV for not turning on fast enough.

 

_Angel Solves Riemann Hypothesis_

 

Those are the words emblazoned across the screen. Pete has to read them a few times before they really sink in.

 

"Oh my God," Pete says quietly, feeling his mouth quirk at the edges. "He...he... _what?"_

 

"Shh," she hisses as the screen cuts to an elderly man who is apparently _Sir Andrew Wiles, mathematician and Professor at the University of Oxford,_ and is looking a little giddy.

 

"It's - it's just _amazing,"_ the man stammers, pushing his glasses up his nose and sitting forward in his chair, "this creature is a wonder, he - he's provided proof for a problem that I myself have poured over for years - many mathematicians have dedicated their _lives_ to learning how to tackle problems like this, and - and this boy has just done it, just like that - and - and so young, too, it's just - astounding!" he rambles, flinging his hands about. "I'm sure I speak for many of us in the field when I say that I'd like to - to sit down with this boy and discuss what else he knows, what else he can help us with -"

 

He's cut off when the screen returns to the news reader. Pete's eyes widen as he's shown an image of Patrick's proof - carved into the wall of his enclosure, no less. It's a sea of numbers and letters, lines and symbols, and Pete marvels at it, a knot of pride glowing in his chest. Right at the bottom it says, in squished yet legible handwriting, _all values accurate to 10 d.p. Up yours, [blurred]._ Pete grins wider than he has in months.

 

The best part - oh, the part that makes Pete positively burst with happiness - is that to the side of the image, Patrick sits underneath his work, obviously posing for the camera and with a glittering smile across his face. His eyes aren't dead anymore. His eyes say _I win._ Or possibly something more explicit.

 

"They've gotta let him out," Pete realises, "they _have_ to. They - they can't keep him like this now, people will -"

 

"...obviously faked. It will remain in captivity for the rest of the year, as per the museum's agreement," a tall man with a red face growls at the camera. 

 

"Then what's your response to the public outcry?" the interviewer pipes up, following the man as he stalks through the corridor.

 

"If they believe that a dumb animal is capable of doing maths, that's their problem," the man snaps.  "No more questions."

 

Pete stares. The newsreader goes on to show a statement from the museum detailing the fact that they _will not give in to public pressure._ Pete boils.

 

He doesn't cry, for once. He fumes. He feels anger he's only felt in the heat of a court room, his fingers shake but his mind is clear as crystal, this is so profoundly unjust that Pete would be neglecting his legal duties not to intervene. He won't take it anymore. He's fucking sick of being passive in every area of his life. He's sick of lying down.

 

He stands up, grabbing all the empty packets of junk food in coiled fists and turns off the TV. He can hear his mother talking through the phone still, and hangs up on her. He dumps all his shit in the bin and breathes a slow breath. He won't overthink this one, he won't chicken out.

 

There's an axe in the cupboard under the stairs. It's time for another trip to the Natural History Museum.

 


	20. Silence Is Not A Synonym For Obedience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to everyone kind enough to bear with me! (the next chapter won't take that long, I swear on my samosa) 
> 
> Please leave a comment if this chapter filled you with hope and joy which it surely will. 
> 
> (or come shout at me on tumblr @the-chaotic-panda, I'm nice I s2g, honest)

Patrick has learnt. He's learnt that the only place he can pee in private is behind the plant with the big leaves in the corner of the enclosure; he's learnt that the big plastic rock in the middle is weaker than it looks, and once ripped open, makes a good little sleeping spot; he's learnt that these humans like to film him as much as White did.

He's learnt that to talk is to be punished. He's learnt that no-one on the other side of the glass can hear him, even if they cared to listen. He's learnt that there is no longer a single person in his life who gives a shit about him.

There’d been no-one to shout for when they’d dragged him from solitary and thrown him into a cage, no-one to reach for when everything went dark and he felt movement underneath him. When they finally tipped him out onto concrete floor, there was no-one to help him to his feet.

The room they keep him in at night is bare and grey; there’s a wall of bars and a locked door to keep him from the corridor beyond. When he first looks around, he thinks it’s better than solitary. He can see through the bars, see people darting in and out of an office, hear voices talking. At least he’s not totally alone.

But when company arrives, Patrick thinks he may have preferred loneliness.

“Hello, Feathers,” Johnson says as he yanks open the door to the cell, followed by two others. “I’m the new Head of Security.”

Patrick’s stomach drops. He growls from where he’s sat, wrapping his wings tightly around himself and vowing not to let Johnson get to him. Andy said the punishment for screwing up would be worse than anything. “Congratulations,” he spits, glaring. “Where am I?”

Johnson looks around at his colleagues for a few seconds, a blank look on his face. “Can you hear something?”

Anger lights in Patrick’s chest. “Tell me where the fuck I am!”

“I swear I can hear like – like a squeaking noise, or something,” Johnson hums, looking around the room.

“Listen to me, shithead!” Patrick shrieks, pushing himself up on wobbly legs and curling his hands into fists. They all leap backwards, their hands flying to their guns. Fucking  _good._

“Huh. Must just be my imagination,” Johnson muses, hooking his fingers in his belt loops. Patrick pounces.

He’s going to kill him. He’s going to rip the stupid smile from Johnson’s stupid face, he’s going to – to do neither of those things. Instead, he finds himself glazed in burning pain, his limbs no longer obeying him and vision turning grey as he comes face to face with the floor. He hears Johnson laugh.

“Bad kitty,” he says, and as Patrick starts to push himself up again, Johnson kicks Patrick’s forearms out from under him. Patrick’s cheek hits Johnson’s boot.

Recoiling before Johnson can mess with him any more, Patrick wraps himself in his wings and tries to shake the trembles out of his fingers. The shocks always leave his nerves in tatters and his mind wheeling.

Johnson leans over him, leering. He waves the remote, pressing the button right in front of Patrick’s face and sending another weak wave of pain over him. Patrick twitches like a half-dead spider.

“Now, feathers,” Johnson coos, “here’s the thing. Every time you act out, I’m going to press this button.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Patrick snarls, jerking towards Johnson and feeling his chest swell when the man stumbles backwards. It’s almost worth the blinding agony.

When Patrick’s vision clears, Johnson’s baring his crooked teeth. “Like so. And do you know what’ll happen if I press this too many times?”

Patrick stares, dreading the answer. But what more can they do? “No,” he huffs, biting back the word  _shithead._

“Well,” Johnson says, crouching down and grinning into Patrick’s face, “all those shocks, they don’t do your brain any good. After a while, you won’t be able to do your precious maths anymore. You won’t be able to remember people’s names. You’ll be dumb. You’ll be  _stupid.”_

It’s not true. It’s  _not_ true. “You’re lying,” Patrick says, just to prove he’s still clever and he can see right through this.

“I could be,” Johnson ponders, looking at the remote in his hand. “But are you willing to take that chance?”

Patrick won’t believe him. The lies are written all over his face. But the shocks  _hurt,_ and pain must mean that some damage is happening somewhere. Even the smallest possibility of it being true strikes fear right through Patrick; his mind is the only thing that they can  _never_ control. The thought of it wasting away has him shaking his head. He’s not willing.

“Right. So, you’re going to do everything I ask, aren’t you?” Johnson says, his sharp eyes meeting Patrick’s.

He won’t nod, so he just looks away, focussing on a crack in the right-hand wall and not on the satisfaction smeared over Johnson’s face.

“Good. Oh, and you’re never going to talk again,” he adds, and Patrick snaps his gaze back to Johnson’s face, eyes wide with alarm.

“What?” Patrick growls, his feathers puffing up in anger, “That’s  _bullshit.”_

“That’s  _orders,_ ” Johnson corrects, waving the remote again. “Now shut up, or I’ll knock you out.”

Patrick boils, his fingers curling in on themselves and his expression raging. They can’t do that; they can’t take this from him too. “ _Fuck_ you,” he snarls, then spits into Johnson’s fucking stupid face, braced for the pain this time as Johnson’s thumb presses the remote and Patrick’s vision blazes white.

There’s a hand at his throat when the shocks fade, pushing the collar into his windpipe and his head into the wall.

“Do that one more time, and I’ll cut out your tongue myself,” Johnson growls, taking his gun out of his belt and pressing the muzzle against Patrick’s chin. “You say another word, and I’ll press this button until you can’t remember your own name. As far as we’re all concerned,  _you can’t talk._ So shut your fucking mouth.”

Patrick shakes with anger as he stares into Johnson’s face, his mind struggling to find an escape. Normally, he’d have broken both Johnson’s arms by now; normally, he wouldn’t have tolerated this at all. But normally, he wouldn’t have the stupid fucking collar around his neck; normally, he wouldn’t be riddled with anxiety about losing his mind. He wants to speak, to scream, but it’s not worth the risk. Between his mouth and his mind, he’d rather keep the latter.

The smirk on Johnson’s face as the words on Patrick’s lips fade and die is utterly infuriating. “There’s a good boy,” he says, patting Patrick on the head and getting to his feet. “Welcome to your new home.”

Patrick looks around. It’s a glorified cage. The floors are grey and so are all the walls. There’s a bucket in the corner and a pile of straw in another. So much for a bed.

“Big day tomorrow, get some sleep,” Johnson says, backing towards the door. “Sweet dreams,” he smirks as he slams the door shut. He waves through the bars, then turns on his heel and marches away, cronies in tow. Patrick curls in on himself. It’s going to be a long night.

-

Nothing could be worse than the lab, that's what he keeps telling himself. Nothing could be worse than being split open twice a week and kept from the outside world. He's beginning to rethink this assertion.

In the morning, people shake him awake. He’s hardly moved since the night before, curled against the wall. He won’t sleep on the straw.

He hardly registers what they’re doing when they pin him to the floor and tell him to keep still until he sees the flash of a razor, the blade raking over his chin and his chest. He could throw them off easily, he could smash each one of their heads into the concrete, but he won’t. Because that might lead to the shocks. They wrap a piece of white fabric around his waist, and he feels minutely more secure. At least they can’t stare anymore, at least they can’t look at him and ruin what Patrick wanted to save for Pete. Not that Pete will ever see him like this. Or indeed, ever again.

The guards don’t listen when he asks where he’s being taken as they drag him out of the cell; he simply gets a shock and a snarled  _shut up._ They march him down the corridor, towards another door, telling him that he  _better behave_ and to  _know_ his _place._ Johnson isn’t here yet – the other two guards are slightly gentler, they don’t call him names and the woman doesn’t glare at him.

She opens a door, and they push him through it. “You’re here until six o’clock tonight,” she says curtly, then shuts the door behind him.

When he looks around, it’s not what he expected. It’s not a dingy torture chamber or a blinding white surgery. It’s a – a garden of some sort, like Pete’s except greener. There’s soil under his feet and fresh air across his face, there’s trees and flowers and big leafy plants. Patrick knows this must be some kind of set up, but it’s lovely all the same.

He’s in a glass box in the corner of a bigger room. He doesn’t understand at first, it’s better than he’s had in weeks; he spends hours just exploring, stroking his fingers over the ridges of the big leaves and sifting through the soil for tiny insects to watch them skitter across the palm of his hand.

The glass is what does it. He can’t work out why it’s there, why it feels like he shouldn’t touch it. It doesn’t seem to be doing any harm until he throws a fist at it - just to see, just to learn - and wakes up some minutes later with his limbs sizzling in pain and his head spinning. He learns not to touch the glass.

It isn’t  _so_ bad, though. Once he figures the rock is hollow, and makes a Patrick-sized hole in the back, he finds himself liking the place more and more; he gathers up some leaves and some grass to make a bed, he collects his favourite stones from around the enclosure and places them in a little circle among the leaves so he can look at them whenever he likes and make sure they’re safe. He almost brings some of the worms he finds in the soil in there with him too; but he’s worried they’d die, they don’t seem to like being held. So, he just sets them down carefully outside the rock so he knows they’re there. They don’t talk, but he wants them close all the same.

At first, it’s fun to nap in there, to have his own little space, to chatter all day to the insects with no-one telling him to be quiet. When he’s taken back to his cell for the night, he’s actually looking forward to tomorrow.

-

The next day is entirely different.

There’s people everywhere. They peer at him from behind the glass, tapping their fingers at him and holding up their cameras. He runs to his rock and stays there, huddled away from prying eyes and reaching hands, counting his pebbles over and over again to soothe the knot in his chest. This is what Andy must have meant by  _they want to display you._

He stays there until someone bangs at the wall of his hiding place. Covering his ears, he jumps away from it, figuring if he squeezes his eyes shut, it might go away. It doesn’t.

Someone pokes him hard in the knee, and when Patrick opens his eyes, he sees that it’s a man with cold eyes and a big stick. Patrick shakes his head because he doesn’t want to get beaten, not now, not in front of all these people. Maybe that’s what this is about; maybe White’s making sport out of him.

But the man produces a bucket and rattles it at him, dipping his hand in and throwing Patrick a few chunks of – of  _food._ Patrick’s stomach growls at the very sight of it. He hasn’t eaten in days, and he gulps down the pellets quickly, searching for more in the soil. There are none.

It all clicks into place when the man starts to back away with the bucket, leaving a trail of food in his wake. They’re trying to coax him out. They want him to show himself. Patrick’s stomach growls louder.

Dignity is not worth death. He takes a deep breath, and climbs out of the rock, staring firmly at the wall and ignoring the increased amount of noise in the room. He can’t let a bunch of stupid humans scare him.

“No, down,” the man says, and Patrick turns to look at him, his wings curled around his body. The man’s pointing at the ground. “Crawl. That’s an order.” He taps the remote on his belt, but Patrick can see the fear on the guy’s face, the way he holds the stick out in front of him like a shield rather than a sword. Patrick complies, dropping to his knees and beginning to pick the food out of the dirt and eat it.  _God,_ days of starvation makes even the bland vitamins taste wondrous.

He avoids every single one of the eyes on him and focusses on the earth beneath his hands, between his fingers. He wonders how many things live in it, he wonders how many other creatures are hiding from the crowds too.

The man finally empties out the bucket in the middle of the enclosure and steps back, watching Patrick carefully. Patrick would snarl, would lurch towards him to watch him flinch, but he’s painfully aware of the man’s hand on the remote. He can’t risk getting shocked again; it already feels like he’s lost some brain cells.

So he simply sits and eats, head down, eyes on the ground, ignoring his shaking hands and focussing on the food.

“Look up,” the man says, rattling the bucket at him. “Look up and smile at them.”

“No,” Patrick mumbles, because they can’t force happiness out of him. He almost adds a  _fuck you,_  but that would definitely get him a shock.

As it turns out, though, even the smallest word gets him a world of pain, an explosion that sends the food in his hands tumbling to the floor and the thought in his head blasted into nothingness. His own breathing becomes a storm in his ears.

“Look up,” the man hisses again, as Patrick watches a string of saliva drip from his own lips, his mouth still open and panting. He won’t look up. He  _won’t._

But the fear of the shocks becomes too great. As he lifts his head, meets the gaze of the man in front of the glass and all his clones, Patrick’s chest seizes with panic. They’re staring, they’ve got their hands and their cameras pressed to the glass, some of them beat their fists and make faces at him. They’re just like White, and Wan, and Loudmouth, and every other person who only ever wants to look and never wants to listen, who wants to touch but not to understand.

Patrick’s fingers fly to his halo, covering it and stroking it out of nervous habit. It helps the nausea but it doesn’t help the panic; his throat still tightens and his stomach turns somersaults as the eyes seem to close in on him, the hands seem to creep nearer. It becomes very difficult to breathe and all of a sudden, the eyes are spinning around him, closer and closer until they see right into his mind and their hands reach to rip pieces out of it. He throws his hand to his skull to try to chase them off but they’re already inside, worming into the very darkest corners of him and poking and prodding and taking what isn’t theirs. The only thing he can think to do is run.

The food scatters as his foot drives into it for leverage and he sprints back to his hiding place, his hands still clutched to his head and the air still not coming easy. He throws himself into the rock, huddling among the leaves and the soil and curling his wings over himself, shielding himself from the traitorous daylight.

Just as Patrick’s thinking that maybe, just this once, they’ll cut him some slack, the man appears, hissing at him to get back out there, to do as he’s told. Patrick shakes his head, pleading with his eyes, hoping the man might take pity on him. Instead, the man pushes his finger into the remote and Patrick hears himself scream.

He scrambles away, pressing himself tight against the plastic interior of the rock and squeezing his eyes shut, pain still bright in his brain. The man pokes and prods him with the stick, shouts and shocks and screams commands but Patrick clamps his hands over his ears and resists, shutting it all out and focussing on the darkness behind his eyes. He can’t fight back but that doesn’t mean he has to give in.

Eventually, everything goes quiet. When Patrick finally opens his eyes, sneaks a peek over his feathers, the man is gone. And Patrick is stupid enough to think he’s gotten away with it.

-

“Get in there,” Johnson growls, taking Patrick by the hair and shoving him into the cell at the end of the day. “If you fucking pull a stunt like that again I’ll fucking –“

“I will!” Patrick screams back, raking his nails across the hand in his hair until it lets go, “I’ll do it every fucking day until you –“

Pain explodes across Patrick’s face as Johnson punches him in the mouth, the taste of blood flooding his tongue as Patrick feels his teeth slice into his bottom lip. For a few seconds, he stills, warmth dribbling down his chin, spraying from his mouth as he breathes. Then he drives his elbow into Johnson’s nose.

Johnson yells out, his hand retracting from Patrick’s forearm and flying to cover his nose. Patrick takes this opportunity to lunge forwards, pummelling Johnson in the chest until he feels the crack of ribs under his knuckles. He’s about to strike, to rip Johnson’s stupid throat out, when hands grab him from behind.

It’s the other two guards. They crush his wings between their bodies and pull his shoulders back until they ache with the strain, and Patrick can feel that one wrong move would pull them out of their sockets. Everything falls silent around his and Johnson’s heavy breaths.

Johnson pushes himself off the wall, wiping his nose on his sleeve and clutching at his ribs. Patrick thinks, for a few, stupid seconds, that he might have won. But when Johnson looks up, his eyes burn with fury.

“Hold him still,” he spits, and Patrick feels the arms around him tighten their grip.

He doesn’t quite realise what Johnson means until Johnson reaches for a metal object at his belt that turns out to be some kind of bat.

The next few minutes should be a blur; Patrick should have fazed himself out like he used to, taken himself away from the moment, but instead, he feels every blow. He can’t hide his face in his hands and Johnson knows it, and by the end, Patrick is blinking blood from his eyes and watching his split skin blossom with bruises.

When they finally let go, Patrick’s legs give out from under him and he falls onto all fours, blood spotting the concrete beneath him. As he looks up, Johnson crouches in front of him, one arm clutched to his ribs and the other reaching out to Patrick. Patrick knows exactly what Johnson’s going to do. He’s too broken to stop it.

Johnson’s hand closes around his halo, and Patrick’s mouth drops open in a silent scream as his whole body bursts into flame. More pain shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t make any difference and yet it blazes down to his core and he realises that he’d do anything at all to make it stop.

“I won’t let go,” Johnson hisses into Patrick’s ear. “Not until you promise to do as you’re told.”

Patrick feels himself nod, feels his lips form the words, “I promise.”

The ground rises to meet Patrick’s face when Johnson finally lets go.

“You’re going to shut up from now on, aren’t you?” Johnson says somewhere above him, his shadow falling over Patrick’s crumpled body.

“Yes,” Patrick cries, “I promise.”

Pain explodes in his gut as Johnson’s boot sinks into his belly. “Wrong. Try again. Are you going to shut up now?”

This time, the only noise Patrick makes is a fucking pathetic little whine as he shifts and his body burns with bruises.

“Better,” Johnson says, not-so-accidentally stepping on Patrick’s wing and spitting at his face. Three sets of footsteps leave the room, and the cell door is slammed shut. Patrick is left with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the bubble of blood in his throat. The concrete grinds dirt into the cuts on Patrick’s cheek, the cold creeps into his bones and makes him yearn for warmth, for comfort. The light in his chest that always told him somehow, life would get better, is stubbed out.

Tonight, he heaves himself over to the pile of straw and curls up in it, scrubbing tears from his eyes before they can fall and cursing every whimper that crawls from his mouth. Tonight, he doesn’t lie to himself with imaginings of Pete next to him, of warm arms wrapped around him and loving whispers in his ear; tonight, he feels the cold, the loneliness. Tonight, he gives in.

-

The next morning, he does as he’s told. He lets them drag him from the straw and wipe the blood from his skin, he lets them cover the bruises with makeup and pile powder into the cuts. They snip the dried blood out of his hair and change the red-spotted cloth around his waist, they paint his split lips blush pink. 

The bruises may be fading, but the deep ache in his bones isn’t. He feels weaker than ever as he’s led back out to the glass enclosure to face the crowds. He doesn’t fight it this time.

There’s nothing he can do but sit there and breathe through it when they position him in front of the glass; he watches them grin and laugh and mock and wants to burrow into the earth and out of sight. Some are different, though. Some gasp, some stare in awe, some place their hands gently on the glass and let their jaws drop when Patrick looks up at them. One woman even cries, falling to her knees and whispering prayers into her clasped hands. If only they could see the scars beneath the makeup.

He eats when the man tells him to, he fetches the fucking stupid ball, he crawls in the dirt like the dumb creature he’s become. After a few days, he’s not even sure he remembers how to speak. His throat only seems capable of noises now, grunts and moans and snarls when the guards grab him too hard. The shocks have gone to his head. He wonders what Pete would think if he saw what’s become of his special person. Animals aren’t meant to be kissed.

Time begins to skitter away from him. He can’t remember what day it is, he can’t feel the hours passing anymore. He knows when he eats and he knows when he sleeps, and that’s all he knows. He lives for the bliss of dreams; they’re the only moments in which he feels Pete’s lips on his skin, Pete’s fingers in his hair. Waking up is worse than a shock.

Patrick’s lounging against the back wall one morning, wings splayed behind him – the crowds like that – when something sharp catches his nails where he’s digging into the soil. It’s a rock, a beautiful slash of stone that fits neatly in his palm and tapers into a blunt point. He could use it to split open Johnson’s skull. He could drive it right into that motherfucker’s eye. But what would that solve? They’d just bring along someone meaner, someone packed tighter full of shit who’d shout louder and hit harder.

He could use it to break the glass. He’s already got it sussed; there’s two thick sheets of it on each wall, separated by a cushion of air. He’d have to break through both layers before they noticed and knocked him out. Unlikely.

Burrowing down wouldn’t help him, and the ceiling looks like solid stone, so he simply lets out a sigh and leans his head back against the wall, curling himself up and tracing patterns on the paint with the point of the stone. When he presses a little too hard, a grey line appears, the paint flaking away. Patrick believes he experiences what the humans might call a  _lightbulb moment._

He digs the stone firmly into the wall, dragging it downwards and creating a dark groove in the wall. He looks upwards, and the wall is no longer a slab of brickwork – it’s a blank canvas.

Faster than he has in days, he scrambles to his feet, stumbling backwards and gazing at the sheet of white in front of him. He’s not allowed to  _talk,_ but Johnson never said anything about  _writing._ His mind reels; what could he possibly say that would prove to these people that he’s not just something to look at?  _Help?_

But as he feels the weight of the collar around his neck and the stone in his hand, he knows exactly what he has to write. These humans like useful things. He needs to prove that he is useful.

He climbs the tree in the corner of the enclosure, the hum of the crowd spurring him higher, and perches on the very top branches, his spread wings keeping him somewhat balanced and the bark biting into the back of his thighs. Then, he begins to write.

The numbers spill from his head like water, the stone barely leaving the wall as he strikes out harsh lines and blinks the dust from his eyes. He knows this, it comes as naturally as breathing, he can solve this problem in front of all these people and show them he’s more than this. He can only reach a certain way along the wall, but if he writes small enough, he’s pretty sure he can fit it all in. He’s barely a quarter of the way through when the first shock comes.

He jolts forwards, just managing to keep his grip on the stone, and keeps carving, his mind spinning over all the complex numbers. He’s determined to finish this before they fry all his intelligence away. The next shock is much larger.

This time, his grip on the branch slips and the ground rushes towards him. He falls face-first into the soil, his wings flapping uselessly as they try to catch the air. The stone is still clasped in his hand, though.

When he looks up at the crowds, he expects jeering, laughter at his failure. Instead, he’s met with awe. They’re staring, shocked, their eyes either on him or on his scrawled equations. One woman points purposefully, and for once, Patrick understands exactly what she’s saying:  _get back up there._

The spark in his chest fizzles back into life as he jumps to his feet, brushing the earth from his body, scrambling up the tree and resuming his calculations. He’s counting on the fact that they never shock him more than twice in front of the crowds, but there’s a smile on his face for the first time in weeks.

Half an hour later, and he’s two-thirds of the way there, moving down the wall until he’s on the bottom-most branch of the tree. No-one stops him. There’s no Johnson, no men with guns. It’s amazing what the public eye can do. He’s untouchable in front of the crowd.

He ends up crouched on the ground, his writing crushed into the concrete, his mind buzzing with the solution. Whenever he chances a look around, the smiles of the people spur him on, each flash of the cameras urging his work closer to immortality. As he scrapes the last few numbers into the concrete, his wings puff with pride. He’s proved the hypothesis. They haven’t beaten him at all. He’s  _won._

With a few choice words to finish off, Patrick drops the now very blunt stone and slumps to the ground, brushing dust from his hands and his face and shaking it from between his feathers. There’s cameras everywhere now, big ones, flashes going off left right and centre and weird fluffy things on sticks hovering over people with microphones. Patrick doesn’t know what’s going on, but he can hazard a guess, so he sits back against the wall and smiles his brightest grin.  _They don’t know what you can do,_ Franklin’s words echo,  _make them know._

But this won’t go unpunished. Come the evening, come the draining of the crowds, he’ll be dragged back to his cell and pinned down again. Johnson will lose his shit and Patrick might lose an eye.  _It wasn’t in the rules, though_ , Patrick pleads with himself, trying to think himself out of the pit,  _I didn’t break any promises._ Because despite what he’s been told all his life, he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve another beating. He’s not sure he can  _survive_ another beating.

As the hours drag by, regret pokes at the corners of his conviction, pulling the seams apart and teasing out the threads one by one. He’s proud of what he did, he keeps telling himself that, but as lunchtime comes and goes, evening creeps nearer. He dreads the pain, the shocks, the thought of Johnson touching his halo again. Giving one more grin to the cameras, he crawls back inside the rock, gathering up all his stones and studying each of them to take his mind off the impending punishment.

But there comes a point when the hum of the crowd swells louder again. He hardly notices it at first, it simply bleeds away among his thoughts, and yet it soon grows into something different, something vicious and growling. And whenever anything growls, Patrick has to growl back.

With a deep breath and a ruffle of his feathers, he peers around the edge of the rock. What he sees is  _chaos._

No-one’s looking at him anymore. Everyone is far more occupied with the prospect of being punched in the face by one of the army of cardboard-carrying people that are currently pouring into the room.

Patrick stares. The signs scream sentences like  _Free the Angel, Museum of Unnatural Cruelty_ and _Divinity Should Not Be Domesticated._ They’re for him. They’re for  _him._

The guards are buried somewhere in the crowds, swamped by screams and surging protestors, and Patrick creeps forwards to get a better view, to see his captors consumed. Instead, another face catches his eye.

He has to look twice because it  _can’t_ be him, Patrick’s pictured it so many times that his mind just wants to taunt him with illusion. Then honey-gold eyes look right at him, and Patrick’s never felt anything more real in his life.

Pete pushes through the crowds, thunder on his face, but when their eyes meet, he smiles, and Patrick’s knees turn to jelly. Being smiled at feels like sunshine on his skin, and being smiled at by  _Pete,_ well. Patrick might just float up off the ground if the bubble of warm air in his chest grows any larger.

_He didn’t forget,_ Patrick thinks as he rushes to the glass,  _he didn’t forget about me._ Pete’s here and smiling and – and wielding an axe. Somewhere in the back of his head, a voice tells him he should be worried, but he can’t quite shake the grin from his face as Pete reaches the glass and looks up at Patrick, his eyes bathed in the love Patrick’s craved for so long. They share half a second of apologies and  _I missed you_ s in a single glance before Pete’s waving at Patrick to move the fuck out of the way and gripping the axe with both hands.

When Pete swings, Patrick expects an applause of glass shattering and a confetti of shards falling around them. He gets neither. The blade simply bounces back towards Pete, making him stumble and flinch away from Patrick. A smudge of white is the only damage he’s done.

He takes another swing, and this time, a tiny crack appears in the first layer of glass. Patrick nods his head, gestures for Pete to keep going, looks around to check that the protesters have got the guards under control. A shadow passes across the door to Patrick’s cage. They’ve got minutes.

Patrick yells at Pete to hurry, and whether he hears Patrick or not, he starts to attack the glass with greater resolve. The cracks spread to the second layer, multiplying with each of Pete’s swings, until the blade finally digs through. The locks on the door to Patrick’s cage begin to click open.

The rest of the glass isn’t budging. It’s been smashed into opacity, but the shards don’t fall and Patrick can hardly see Pete anymore. There’s no time – he has to do something.

He acts on the first thought that barrels into his head. With a cry and a leap forward, he draws his arm back and ploughs his fist through the glass, hoping against hope that Pete hasn’t decided to swing the axe at the same time.

He makes it through. His fist is in tatters but so is the glass, so he rips his arm free and begins to pull at the shards, barely aware of the blood spilling down his arms and spraying from his hands as he grips at their razor edges and tears the hole wider. That’s when the shocks start.

They’re as painful as ever, but honestly, Patrick’s amazed he got this far – he grits his teeth and growls, his hands working through the shakes as his vision clears. The next one is so much worse.

He’s not sure if he blacks out or if he simply shuts his eyes, but his throat feels hoarse in the wake of a scream, and Pete’s got pure horror written across his face when Patrick finally looks up. Patrick knows the next one will knock him out for longer, get him locked up somewhere else, somewhere away from Pete. And they can go fuck themselves if they think he’ll let go of Pete again.

“Get it  _off,_ ” he shouts at Pete, his voice roaring back to life. He crouches down and bows his head through the hole. “Cut it!”

Pete’s voice still makes him feel a little giddy even when it’s screamed through broken glass. “No, I – I can’t, what if I –“

_Hurt me?_ Patrick thinks bitterly,  _do your worst._ “Fucking  _cut it!”_ he yells, pleading as the door behind him finally begins to open. Minutes turn to seconds.

Patrick braces his forearms against the broken glass and squeezes his eyes shut. A rush of air ruffles his hair as Pete swings the axe. A breath later, pain rushes through the back of his neck as his head is shoved downwards and his throat drops dangerously close to the jagged edge of the glass.

He feels warm trails of blood leaking down his neck and a jarring sensation in his spine – but when Pete yanks the axe free, the collar slips a little. With bloody fingers, Patrick pulls at it, and it comes away from his neck for the first time in months, the shining metal beneath the rubber throwing his own triumphant reflection back at him. He lets out a small noise of joy and hurls it at the group of guards marching through his enclosure. They’re not an issue, though; he’s fucking  _free,_ now.

With a burning hiss and a flex of his muscles, he pounces at them. They topple like bowling pins underneath him. He drives fists into their faces and heels into their kneecaps, barely feeling a sting in his wrecked forearms. Three go down, the last runs away. Patrick crouches in the dirt among the bodies and watches, a vicious smile on his face. When he stands, he kicks mud into their panting mouths.

The axe dangles in Pete’s arms as Patrick stalks back towards him, blood smudged across his chest and spitting from his hands. Patrick begins to rip at the glass without giving Pete a second glance, snarling with every breath, saliva flicking from between his clenched teeth. When the opening is finally big enough, he shoves himself through, catching most of his limbs on the jaws of the glass and toppling out onto a bed of needle-like shards.

The desire to tear and maim and kill is all he can think of as he pushes himself onto all fours, he wants to see blood pouring from someone else’s veins, see fear and pain and pleading from the outside. Then, arms curl underneath him and lift him to his feet, and love is an entirely different kind of shock.

Pete’s hands are so gentle as they stroke across Patrick’s shoulders, his eyes soft with worry as they gaze into Patrick’s. It’s so much better than all of Patrick’s imaginings.

Patrick allows himself to be drawn into Pete’s arms, his limbs relaxing and his wings reaching to drape around both of them. He drops his head to Pete’s neck and breathes in Pete’s scent, letting his eyes fall shut as his vision blurs with tears. All the world narrows to the feeling of Pete’s chest against Patrick’s, Pete’s warmth, Pete’s hand coming to cradle the back of Patrick’s head.

When they pull apart, Pete brushes the hair out of Patrick’s face and kisses him, their mouths fitting lightly together and leaving Patrick’s hanging open, awestruck and dizzy with affection. Then, someone slams into both of them, and Patrick becomes aware that they have no time for this at all.

Guards are pouring into the room now, pinning members of the mob to the walls and breaking up the riots. Most of them, however, head straight for Patrick. Patrick commits the press of Pete’s lips to memory, grabs him by the hand, and runs.

His feet tread bloody footprints into the floor of the museum, but Patrick doesn’t look back as he sprints as fast as the crowd will allow, towing Pete along with him. They duck and dive away from the guards, shoving the public out of the way and clearing a path towards the door.

There’s no time for Patrick to realise that this is the very museum he and Pete had shyly held hands in as they burst into the corridor. Patrick’s stomach turns when he rounds a corner and catches a glimpse of their pursuers, not just museum guards but police officers too. Gunshots ring out somewhere behind them, and Pete yelps and ducks. Patrick has no idea where in the museum they are, but he thinks he recognises the mammal section, in which case the doors are just around the corner.

He’s right. They spill into the entrance hall, the double doors swarming with press and police but there’s a way around them, surely, they can plough through, Patrick’s strong enough to clear the way with a single fist. He slams his feet harder into the ground, flying across the stone and glimpsing sky just outside the doors.

His heart yearns for it, to feel the breeze in his hair, the daylight on his face. It’s been so long, he needs to see the infinite expanse of space stretched out in front of him just to prove he wasn’t dreaming, to go back to a world with no ceilings. He’s so close. Fifteen seconds and he’ll slam through those doors, twenty and he’ll breathe in fresh air.

Then, he feels Pete’s hand slip from his own.

The guards have caught up. Patrick keeps running, away from their reaching fingers, but when he throws a glance back over his shoulder, he sees Pete’s face being shoved into the floor, his hands being cuffed behind his back. Patrick slows to a jog.

He could still make the doors. The police are coming at him, but he could dodge them easily enough. If he ran, now, as fast as he could, he’d be out there in seven seconds’ time. He could have his sky, his freedom. But not his Pete.

His feet have stopped running. He watches them drag Pete to his feet and shake him, shout at him, make him flinch and cower.

Patrick takes one, last look at the world outside, and makes for Pete.

Guards swamp him but he shoves them into each other and out of his way, stumbling over their rolling bodies and keeping his eyes on Pete. His breaths scream in his ears, his muscles burn, but he throws everything he has into every step he takes, every punch he throws.

He smashes through the visors of the police surrounding Pete, he plunges his feet into their ribs and cracks their heads against the floor, he fights harder than he ever has in his life to get to Pete, to save Pete like Pete saved him. He wrestles with the last officer, the final hurdle, he’s just thrown him towards the ground when two gunshots echo around the hall.

Patrick flinches instinctually, his gaze flashing around the room to seek out the threat, the target. When he finds neither, he breathes a stinging sigh, turning back to Pete and – and seeing a look of pure horror on his face.

Patrick’s first thought is the guards, closing in on them both, or the police, rushing at them from the doorway, or – or maybe Pete’s hurt, what if they’ve  _hurt_ him – “You okay?” Patrick pants, scrambling towards him.

“Patrick…” Pete gapes, and it’s only when Patrick follows Pete’s gaze that he sees the two fresh trails of red oozing down Patrick’s chest. The pain hits him far harder than the bullets did.

Everything sharpens to a perfect, excruciating moment captured under bright lights and blinking eyes. Patrick's lips part in a gasp that catches in his throat. He got  _so close._

His vision doubles as he rakes his fingers over the blood as if that might help, the holes in his chest screaming with every movement. He barely notices the guards barrelling into him, into Pete, the world slowing to something softer, more graceful. He might be falling or floating, he wouldn’t know the difference.

A pixel of pain illuminates his throat and the noise dulls to a hum. Breathing is wet and difficult, the warmth is getting in the way. His chest aches with – with  _something,_ hurt or love or in-between, and he thinks he remembers Pete being near but he doesn’t know. He tries to say Pete’s name, tries to remember his own, but there’s too much warmth, smothering him like a blanket or a flood.

Someone screams in the distance, and all Patrick can feel is the kiss pressed to his lips not so long ago.


	21. 'Sorry' Doesn't Quite Cover This Anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter! (✿◠‿◠)
> 
> Leave a comment! (◠‿◠✿) 
> 
> Love you all! (⊙‿⊙✿)

Pete didn’t expect to find himself crying, alone in a holding cell at the end of today. He's not entirely sure what he expected; perhaps he and Patrick running off into the sunset together, or he and Patrick lying low in some dark corner of London, he and Patrick, he and Patrick. But Patrick’s not here. Pete had hoped, even if it all went to shit, even if they’d been dragged by the hair into police vans and tasered until they drooled, that they’d at least have each other to smile at and reach for.

The moment replays itself in Pete’s mind again and again, yet it never quite sinks in. Over and over he sees Patrick look down at the bullet wounds in his chest, over and over he hears Patrick’s soft gasp of pain, feels the horror melt through him as he watches Patrick crumble to the floor.

The room is too small and the lights too bright – the cuffs on his wrists glitter and he swears he can hear the hum of electricity through the walls. He should be terrified. He's not a criminal, his record is clean as a whistle. He's a good person, a loyal citizen, he pays his taxes and says no to drugs and nods at police officers when they pass him on the street. But all that doesn't matter one bit when he considers the fact that Patrick is lying somewhere with no heartbeat.

He lets out another runaway sob at the thought. God knows what the officers must think of him; he's been steadily weeping since they ducked his head into the car, his shoulders trembling and his words muffled through tear-strained vocal cords. He's not doing Patrick proud, he's sure of it. Patrick would have fought and screamed and  _tried._ Pete had just stood and watched them haul Patrick’s bleeding body away.

Pete stares down at his hands and doesn't look up until he hears the door open at the end of the room.

“Mr Wentz?” Officer Assad calls, her eyes disapproving as always. She never liked him. “Come with me.”

With a futile wipe of his eyes, he stands and follows her. He'd hoped for some time to think before the questioning, to get his story straight and evaluate all the possible outcomes, but he can't bring himself to care. What does it matter if he goes to prison, it's not as if he'd be any further away from Patrick.

He's shoved into another, equally glaring room and told to sit down. Perhaps he should have called Joe, or asked for the duty solicitor, anyone to sit beside him and be his puppet master whilst he stares at all the broken pieces of his insides in front of him. He should be constructing intelligent arguments; instead he's watching the look of resignation burning through the hope in Patrick's eyes as he realises that it's all over. They’ve lost.

Assad unlocks the handcuffs and prises them from his wrists with disdain – but for once, it doesn't seem to be directed towards him. She’s glaring at the door, at the voices bleeding behind it. When the door finally opens, Pete discovers why.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wentz,” Wan says curtly as she strides into the room, flanked by two bodyguards, both of whom look like they'd take a great deal of pleasure in tearing Pete's arms from his shoulders. Pete cowers away from them, looking to the officer for some kind of explanation. She retains her scowl.

“You can go now,” Wan tells Assad, waving her hand as if to shoo away a fly. “This is off the record.”

The officer sticks out her chin, but starts walking. “I’ll be right outside,” she growls, the words wrapping a threat.

Wan doesn't react. Pete's not sure he can recall her ever expressing an emotion beyond her shiny fake smile. She watches the officer leave the room, then snaps her eyes back to Pete once the slam of the door echoes around the walls.

The first thing Pete does is shake his head. He's so tired of this. He's not sure if he can take another verbal assault, another glimpse into Patrick's cruel past. He wants it all to just _stop._ But he has a terrible feeling, looking at Wan’s smiling face, that this is only the beginning.

“Mr Wentz,” she repeats, managing to make even this sound like a threat, “I should've known we weren't shot of you.”

Pete just sighs. He's got nothing to defend – she can see the tears on his face and the slump in his shoulders, she's got all the ammunition she needs.

She scrapes a chair out from under the desk and sits down opposite him, folding her arms over the table and watching him with those dark, unblinking eyes. “What the blazes did you think you were doing?” She asks quietly, mockingly, exasperation spread over her face. “What were you trying to achieve?”

The silence is Pete's protection; he gazes down at his hands, at the red marks around his wrists and says nothing. She knows why he did it, and he's not going to spell it out so she can watch him squirm.

“You could go to prison for this,” she observes. She's lying. He  _could,_ sure, but he's got a firm full of lawyers behind him and a spotless record to match.

“What've you done with him,” Pete croaks at the table, watching a stray tear drip through the valleys of his knuckles.

“That's not for you to know,” Wan says sharply. She shifts in her chair.

“Is he alive.” He has to be. Pete can't have watched Patrick die today. Pete would have  _felt_ something, a severed tie, a broken bond. The colours are too bright for a world with no Patrick.

Wan lets out a laugh – an unnatural, canned sound, crackling as if through a broken speaker. “He was shot twice in the chest. What do you think, Mr. Wentz?”

Pete should feel his stomach drop and his heart break, but instead, he just feels anger. That's how he knows she's lying. “That's not true,” he growls, “you wouldn't be here if that was true.”

“Oh, really?” She says, raising her eyebrows. “This isn't about the boy. This is about you and your crimes, Mr. Wentz.”

A bitter laugh drizzles from Pete's lips as he considers her words. She's lying, again. This is  _all_ about Patrick. Dead or not, there are two bullets in his chest that  _they_ put there. Dead or not, he's endured unimaginable pain and suffering since he was a child. Pete's world of sadness is set alight and he begins to blaze – this should only ever have been about Patrick. “And what about  _your_ crimes? Imprisonment, slavery, kidnap, torture, psychological abuse,” Pete hisses, counting them off on his fingers. “And now attempted murder.”

“As I told you when we first met,” Wan scowls, “the law doesn't apply to us as it does to you.”

“Do you think the public will see it that way?” Pete asks, cocking his head to one side, “do you think all those people who rushed to see the Angel of London will appreciate the YouTube video of you shooting him in the chest?”

“Well, incidentally, that's along the lines of what we’re here to talk to you about –“

“Oh, let me guess, you want to buy my silence? Fuck off,” he barks, squaring his shoulders. He's going to kick up as much fuss as he possibly can – the kiss that he and Patrick shared was very deliberate on Pete's part. The tragic story of the Angel and his human lover is tabloid gold.

“Not buy it,” Wan retorts, “ _trade_ it.”

“Oh yeah? What for,” Pete says, folding his arms and sitting back in his chair. This better be good. 

“For your freedom. We will drop all charges against you and as far as we can, remove all public record of you being involved. You sign a document, and you walk away.” She smirks like she’s won.

Pete just shakes his head. He took a similar offer three months ago, and all he gained was heartbreak and misery. “No.”

“So you’d prefer prison?” Wan asks, but her fists are clenched and her breeziness is faked. Pete wonders how far he can push her.

“I’d prefer a better offer,” he shrugs. He needs time to think this over, to comb through small print and loopholes, but for now, all that comes to mind is what he wants most in the world. “Drop all charges – and I want unrestricted access to the lab.”

“What?” Wan scoffs, “there’s no way –“

“Oh, and I’m not helping you hurt him, either. I want an all-hours permit and no involvement in any of the experiments.”

“For god’s sake –“

“Or I’ll talk,” Pete growls across the table, “I’ll tell everyone exactly what you’ve been doing. I’ll tell them about the other angels, how you slaughtered them, how you took a kid from his dead mother’s arms and stuck him in a fucking cage. I can still make phone calls in prison. I can still ruin you.”

Each word is fuelled by the crack of gunfire around lofty ceilings, the burst of blood across pale skin and the fear flooding through bright blue eyes. Pete knows he’s won when she looks away.

“Fine,” she eventually spits at him, “fine. Sign this. We’ll have you on the system by tomorrow.” She throws a wad of paper at him and a pen. He makes sure to read every word of it.

When he’s finally finished, Wan’s face is a ticking red time bomb and her eyes could burn holes in the desk. She snatches the paper from him and stows it in her briefcase, then shoves her chair away from the table and motions to her colleagues.

“Just know, Mr. Wentz,” Wan hisses as she wrenches the door open, “the lab will run as normal. You can’t stop them cutting him up. You’ll have to stand and watch them destroy him.”

_We’ll see about that._  Pete flexes his jaw and hopes his glare conveys the loathing he feels. “See you tomorrow.”

-

Andy can’t quite believe that Wentz is back.

It feels like some horrific déjà vu as Andy shrugs on his lab coat and looks up to see the lawyer in the middle of the corridor.

“Did I not get rid of you?” Andy sighs, rubbing a hand across his well-beaten brow. “How in God’s name did you get in?”

Wentz just folds his arms in a way that he must think makes him look macho. “Where the  _fuck_ is he. No-one’s told me anything since I arrived. White’s locked herself in her bloody office, and the interns ran off.”

“You’re breaking the law, Wentz,” Andy tells him, buttoning his coat and placing his glasses on his nose. “Get out.”

“No, I’m not,” Wentz says, digging a hand into his jacket pocket and revealing not his middle finger but an actual, bona fide pass. “Wan’s more easily swayed than she looks.”

Andy scoffs. “You’ve changed your bloody tune. Find your missing spine, did you?”

“ _Don’t_ avoid my question. Where – is – Patrick?” Wentz enunciates slowly, taking a step towards Andy.

He shakes his head. “How should I know. You were the one that got him shot.” Yesterday had been Andy’s day off, and he’d spent it hunched over the TV, watching Patrick prove his genius before Wentz showed up and spoiled it all. He has no idea where they’ve taken him – hopefully to the Chelsea and Westminster A&E department.

Pete’s mouth shuts at that, his face crumpling. Andy almost feels bad until he remembers that this is the man Patrick ran back to save. He wasn’t worth it.

“Look,” Andy sighs, “I’ve  _just_ arrived here. I don’t know any more than you do. But I’ll get White to talk to you, if you like - I’m sure she’s  _thrilled_ you’re back here.”

“You can’t kick me out,” Pete snarls as Andy sweeps past him and down the corridor, “your anonymity depends on it.”

“Well, isn’t that lovely,” Andy says, walking a head of Pete so the lawyer won’t see his eyeroll. “I don’t know what you’re hoping to change.”

“Is he going back in that enclosure?”

Andy huffs shortly. “Not for the moment.”

“Then I’ve already changed something.”

He’ll be quizzing Wan thoroughly as to why this guy isn’t in prison later on, but for now, he just heads for White’s office. He braces himself for a whirlwind of yelling.

But when White opens the door, she looks burnt out. Her eyes flick from Pete to Andy, yet she doesn’t pounce on either of them. It’s somehow so much worse.

“You,” she says to Pete, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Stop bloody harassing me. Go – I don’t know – sulk in your room, or something. I don’t care. You won’t see him until tomorrow, no matter how much you pout. Just  _go._ ”

Pete casts Andy a look that says he’s delusional enough to expect support – Andy just gazes steadily at his twitching features as they flit between anger and indecision. At last, Pete lets out a puff of air before turning on his heel and stalking back down the corridor. Andy purses his lips.

“What’s he doing here?” he asks White under his breath as she retreats into her office.

She shakes her head. “I haven’t the slightest idea. According to Wan, he threatened to talk if he wasn’t given access.”

“But he can’t just  _be_ here, we’ve got to  _work,_ for crying out loud!”

“That’s exactly what I said to her!” White exclaims, slumping behind her desk and brushing loose hair from her face. “He’s only ever caused trouble for us. Speaking of which, the museum contract has fallen through. They don’t want him back. Ever. And they want every penny of their money back.”

Andy’s chest tightens. That was the whole point of this, to make money, to fund the lab, to keep Patrick useful and alive. “So – so what does that mean?”

“Well,” White says, wringing her hands together in front of her. “It means we’ll have to take up Mr. Zhou on his offer.”

“But – you – we can’t do that. We _can’t,”_ Andy tells her. But he knows that sheepish look on her face. “You’ve already agreed to this, haven’t you.”

She nods. “Wan’s orders. There’s no other option.”

“But – when - ?”

“Tomorrow morning,” she sighs, and Andy’s stomach drops.

“No,” he says, shaking his head quickly, “no, no. That’s not enough time. He needs time to recover, you can’t just –“

“It’s already been arranged.”

“But he had two bullets in his chest! Even at his rate of healing, he won’t be fit to come back here for another two weeks! He needs –“

“Come back here?” White sneers, wrinkling her nose at Andy, “What do you mean? He’s already here.”

Andy’s words die in his throat as he stops to register what exactly White just said. “Excuse me? He’s being treated, in hospital, isn’t he. Tell me he’s being treated.”

It all becomes so much more painful as White looks up at him with eyes that say exactly what he feared.

“You – you’ve just left him bleeding, haven’t you,” Andy says quietly.

She doesn’t meet his eyes as she shrugs her indifference. “We took the bullets out. No point cleaning him up properly until tomorrow.”

Andy’s not sure what to say to articulate the wave of nausea that seeps through him. He’s not sure what makes this the final straw, he doesn’t know why it’s worse than everything else, it just – is. It makes him sick in a way he hasn’t felt since he was first handed a screaming baby with a scar running down the centre of its chest.

“For God’s sake,” he says softly, the words woven with rage he mustn’t show, “why would you do that? He could  _die –_ he could –“

“Oh, he won’t die,” White dismisses with a scoff, “when has he ever even come  _close_ to dying? They should’ve aimed at his bloody head, the cowards.”

“So – so, what, he’s just – just lying somewhere, in pain and alone?” Andy asks, his voice trembling dangerously off-course. He won’t cry for Patrick, he’s not the overwhelmed intern he used to be, but he’s close to shouting for him. “Is he sedated?”

“Not – exactly,” she replies, pretending to read whatever paperwork is piled in front of her.

Andy shakes his head. “No – don’t you give me that, what’ve you done? Have you knocked him out, is he high on morphine, what?!”

She shrugs again, her eyes still trained on the paper. Andy boils.

He slams a hand down on her desk. “For God’s sake, tell me! When he’s in this building, he’s  _my_ responsibility - I need to know what the hell you’ve done to him!”

Finally,  _finally,_ she sits back in her chair, the coldness in her eyes sending a chill across Andy’s skin. “He’s under control. He’ll be docile enough for tomorrow.”

Andy’s about to shout, to rage, but he doesn’t miss the way her gaze cuts away to the small sink at the far end of her office, surrounded by packets of latex gloves and anti-bacterial hand-wash. Neither does he miss the flash of gold among a nest of tissues.

“You didn’t,” Andy wishes, taking a deep breath. “Please tell me you didn’t.” He doesn’t wait for an answer – the few steps he takes towards the sink provide him with one.

Patrick’s halo sits starkly against the white ceramic, its edges rusted dark with blood. Andy closes his eyes for a long moment and tells himself he can’t kill her.

“You really don’t give a shit about him, do you,” Andy says at last, turning to face her. “You know what this does to him, and you don’t care one little bit.”

Her jaw clenches along with Andy’s fists. “What difference does it make. The anaesthetic is unreliable, and it’s not like this is the worst thing we’re going to do to him in the next twenty-four hours. He won’t feel a thing.”

“But this is  _part_ of him! It’s – it’s practically his  _soul,_ and you  _know_ what happened last time!” Andy cries, his hands flailing wildly as White’s remain neatly folded.

“It won’t go that far. We’ll give it back tomorrow,” she says curtly, as if that makes it all better.

“Where is he,” Andy asks, his voice quivering with barely-restrained anger. This is too far, he’s sure of it – this will be Patrick’s breaking point. The halo seems lost without its owner.

White throws him a mocking smile that forces Andy to take a deep breath to keep from screaming. “Why? Are you going to help him? Are you going to hold his hand and pretend that it makes up for everything else? You must think yourself quite the saint. You’re no better than the rest of us, Hurley.”

She says it like he doesn’t know. She says it like he doesn’t think about all the times he’s heard Patrick scream for help and done nothing, all the times he’s watched Patrick weep with pain and failed to comfort him. It’s despicable, it’s soulless – but it ends here. Andy turns back to the halo hovers his hands around it, not daring to touch.

“It won’t make any difference,” White calls from behind him as he pulls clean tissues from the dispenser and wraps them around the gold, wincing every time his fingers brush its brilliant surface. “He’ll still be on that table at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Andy simply shakes his head because it  _will_  make a difference. It’ll make the world of difference to Patrick. It won’t change his future but it will change his present. Once it’s fully wrapped in tissues, Andy scoops the halo into his hands. Just holding it feels like a violation.

“Where is he,” Andy asks again, even though he has a terrible feeling he already knows. His stomach squeezes when he sees her lips form the word  _solitary._ Of course he’s all alone.

Her insults fall on deaf ears as Andy turns and storms from the office.

 

He knows exactly what he’s going to find. Patrick’s halo is his energy, as vital as the blood through his veins and the air through his lungs - perhaps even moreso. They’ve tested it before; they’ve wrestled the band from Patrick’s arm watched him shut down. It never takes long – first the dizziness, then the drowsiness, then the desire to curl up in himself and sleep. And yet, Andy still hopes, somehow, that Patrick will shout when the door is opened, that he’ll jump up and punch or scold or hug Andy.

Nevertheless, when the handle grinds under Andy’s palm, all that greets him is silence. Andy once joked that Patrick will only ever be silent when he’s dead – now he fears that might be exactly the case. He’s looking for a hospital bed, but what he finds is a corpse.

Patrick’s body lies on the ground in front of him, face down and wings bent over his back, his feathers dipped in the filthy floor. The scent of blood and piss floods Andy’s lungs, heavy and suffocating. Patrick’s bare shoulders scream white into the darkness, blackened stains soak his feet and forearms.

When Andy presses the lights on, everything goes red. It coats Patrick’s hands, it sticks in his hair, it dries on the floor beneath him, bright as neon and stinging Andy’s eyes. They’ve finally killed him. They’ve bled him dry and ripped away his soul and he’s given up. Andy tries not to admit to himself what a relief that would be.

Instead, he closes the door behind him and drops to his knees beside Patrick, watching his body for any sign of movement. He remains utterly still – until Andy sees the boy’s chest rise slightly, the muscles in his back fluttering with the effort.

“Patrick,” Andy whispers, reaching out a careful hand to brush ratty, knotted hair from Patrick’s face. He looks truly awful – his eyes are circled with grey and the healthy glow of his cheeks has faded to the pallor of illness, his lips cracked and bleached.

The only response Andy receives is the twitch of a blood-soaked finger. Patrick’s hands are ruined, littered with deep gashes that still glitter with glass. Without his halo, they’re festering. Andy unwraps the gold band and pushes it towards Patrick, hoping he might reach out, open his eyes, let Andy know that he’s going to be okay.

He doesn’t stir. Andy’s face is pinched tight as he takes the ring of metal in his hands and wedges it as close to Patrick’s chest as he can.

“Patrick,” Andy says again, placing a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. He’s colder than he should be. Andy shrugs off his coat and drapes it over the boy, tucking it around him and hoping the warmth is enough. “Patrick, come on.”

Andy watches, waits for what seems like hours before the muscles in Patrick’s shoulders finally surge with motion, his biceps tensing, curling themselves around the halo. A breath rushes from his mouth as he relaxes again, the next coming faster than before, gentle shifts rippling across his feathers. The relief that floods Andy’s chest makes him realise just how much he cares.

The boy’s face twitches minutely and his eyes slit open, shards of grey peeking out from under his lashes. He doesn’t look at Andy – his gaze is blank, objectless, lips gasping at the blood-stained floor. He needs to turn onto his back, he needs to breathe properly – but when Andy reaches to touch him, his mouth twists into a snarl.

This is what Andy had feared. Last time they took his halo away, he nearly killed someone. If it wasn’t for a team of trained officers, Andy would have witnessed Patrick digging a man's heart out of his chest. But although a growl rumbles through his chest, although his eyes slice through Andy, he soon falls silent, motionless. Andy can see the exhaustion written in shadows over his face.

Andy reaches out again, this time managing to settle his hand against Patrick’s jaw, thumb brushing across his clammy cheek. Patrick tenses, winces, but doesn’t fight back, letting Andy scratch softly beneath his ear.

He lies still for a few moments, breaths rushing through him and eyes flicking from Andy to his own red-stained fingers. He tries to move them, tries to curl them around his halo but lets them fall, limp, at the last second, whining with pain. His brow is furrowed with discomfort and his wings twitch erratically, stretching as he concentrates and shivering with each broken cry he lets out.

Each attempt Andy has at nudging the halo nearer to Patrick gets him a snarl and a snap of the boy’s teeth. He won’t be himself for many hours after this.

“I’m going to put it on your arm, okay?” Andy tells the boy softly, stroking hair away from his ear as if that might somehow help him understand. “I’m going to touch it, but only for a few seconds, alright? I’m not trying to hurt you.”

Patrick’s eyes rest upon Andy, awake but not aware, and follow his hands as they reach for his halo. When Andy touches it, Patrick scrabbles at the ground, his wings flapping weakly and snarls ripping from his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Andy says, avoiding the clutch of Patrick’s fingers as he pinches his wrist, “just a few more seconds, I swear.”

Hearing Patrick cry out as Andy loops the halo over his hand makes Andy’s stomach twist; he spits and writhes and sobs but Andy can’t stop now, shoving the band of gold over Patrick’s wrist until it’s wedged on his forearm, just above the longest of the cuts. When he sets Patrick’s arm down, the boy jerks away from him, curling his hands underneath him and whining with each stuttered breath.

“You’re okay,” Andy soothes, hoping to God it’s true, “no more pain, alright? No more pain.”

It’s a lie, it’s a worn out excuse that he’s fed Patrick since he was a child, it’s a false comfort to shut him up. Patrick’s wounds will have to be cleaned, stitched shut just to be cut open all over again. Andy’s known from the start that it’ll only end when the boy’s dead; perhaps not even then.

It would be easy to leave him. No-one would blame Andy, no-one would bat an eyelid when the kid’s still bleeding tomorrow morning. But Patrick squirms with pain in front of Andy, whimpers into the filthy floor and Andy can’t face walking away, not again. Instead, he shoves at Patrick’s shoulder until the boy shifts onto his side, revealing the weeping bullet wounds in his chest. It’s a wonder he’s still breathing.

Andy starts to get to his feet, mentally scanning his office for the first aid kit, but Patrick’s fingers catch on the hem of his trousers and curl into fists. “No,” he moans, dull eyes fixed upon Andy, all aggression drained by fear of loneliness.

“I’m coming back,” Andy says, “I promise, I’ll come back.”

“No,” Patrick repeats, slurred and childlike, “no.”

With a sigh, Andy crouches down once more - Patrick's shoulders relax but his fingers still clutch at Andy’s clothes. “Well, if you won’t let me leave, you’ve got to come with me,” he huffs, tilting his head to catch Patrick’s gaze.

Patrick seems to consider this for a few moments, his brows furrowing with struggled understanding and his mouth pressed into a frown. Then, he attempts to move, pushing at the floor with his elbows and trying to tuck his legs underneath him. He fails miserably, the scuffles ending with a crack of bone against concrete and a cry of tired pain as the breath is knocked from his chest.

Andy lunges for him, scooping and arm under his shoulders and hauling him into a sitting position. He lets Andy manhandle him with little resistance, the occasional limp growl spilling from his lips but his hands catching a tight hold of Andy’s shirt collar. Andy avoids Patrick’s attempts at nuzzling him out of habit, pushes his wings away where they try to wrap around them both. He needs medical attention; there’ll be time for affection later.

Managing, eventually, to coerce Patrick onto his feet, he steadies Patrick’s shoulders and catches Patrick’s empty gaze. “Are you alright?” he asks slowly and clearly, watching for any hint of understanding in the boy’s eyes. Andy can see him trying, can see him dismantling every syllable and putting it back together again, but in the end, he’s simply stood, staring, uncomprehending.

When Andy moves away, Patrick stumbles after him - but his knees buckle and Andy has to fly to catch him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and letting Patrick grab his wrist. His wings waft uselessly behind him, the coat falling to the floor; he shivers against Andy, tucking his head into the crook of Andy’s neck. The sharp whiff of stink that hits Andy’s nostrils has him steering Patrick out of the room and towards the shower.

Patrick barely reacts as Andy bundles him into the cubicle and unties the ridiculous loincloth from his waist, throwing it to one side and helping him to the floor. The boy watches Andy blankly as he takes off his shoes and socks and unhooks the showerhead, turning it on and testing the temperature on his hand.

When it’s reached a gentle warmth, Andy kneels next to Patrick and begins to stroke the water over him in waves, watching the stream run red with bloodstains slipped from Patrick’s skin. Patrick’s eyes fall shut when Andy begins to wash his hair, massaging shampoo over his scalp and teasing out the knots with a wide-toothed comb.

Careful to avoid the wounds, Andy runs soap across Patrick’s shoulders, scrubbing at his underarms and between his legs until the smell of sweat and urine is replaced with the softness of strawberry. Patrick shows his satisfaction by attempting to eat a handful of suds, hastily discouraged by Andy, who instead lets him rest his cheek on his shoulder while he wipes at Patrick’s wings.

It’s a slow process, teasing the dried blood from between the barbs of Patrick’s feathers, but it’s nothing Andy hasn’t done before and he’s learned how not to split the vanes, not to crack the shafts, pull at the fine fluff cloaked close to the bone. By the time Patrick’s wings glow pure white, Andy’s fingers are littered with tiny cuts from the shards of glass still embedded between his feathers.

Filling his palm with water, Andy begins to wash Patrick’s face, rubbing his cheeks clear of the remnants of makeup and soaking the crusted blood from his eyebrows. It’s only when Patrick laps at the water streaming over his lips that Andy realises he hasn’t been fed or watered for God knows how long.

“Don’t drink that, Patrick,” he says, pushing at Patrick’s chin until he closes his mouth, “I’ll get you some water in a second, okay? When you’re all clean.”

Patrick’s eyes squint with sodden lashes as he processes the words, his mouth curving into a concentrated frown until something seems to click into place and he nods uncertainly, thoughtful as he is when solving maths problems. He lets out a huff of either frustration or just plain exhaustion, leaning his head back to let Andy lather under his chin.

When Andy finally turns off the water, Patrick’s looking healthier already; his skin blushed pink from the heat and sweet-smelling. But the wounds in his chest spoil the image of the cherub, and honestly, Andy is struggling to think how on earth to deal with them.

Andy is no doctor of medicine. He’s patched Patrick up before, but never like this. He suspects, as he helps Patrick up from the floor and dabs a towel over him, that neither bullet has punctured a vital organ – then again, Patrick’s vital organs have a habit of regenerating faster than anyone can stitch.

With an arm steadying Patrick, he guides him towards the operating theatre; but once he pushes the door open, the boy begins to squirm. He twists away from Andy, shaking his head and letting out a pained whine. “No,” he wails, eyes wide and fixed upon Andy, “no. Not in there.”

Andy catches a hold of Patrick’s wrist and squeezes. “I need to stitch you up,” he says gently, but Patrick just shakes his head, his face alight with panic. “Patrick, please, you won’t heal otherwise.”

“Not there,” he repeats, “no. No.” But Andy can’t take him anywhere else. Patrick’s malleable enough to let Andy pull him back, desperate enough for contact to let Andy wrap his arms around him and lead him through the doorway.

“I just want to help you heal,” Andy tells Patrick as the boy starts to cry quietly into Andy’s shoulder. “I’m going to stitch you up, Patrick.”

He just shakes his head again, his breaths coming too fast and his muscles pulling rigid as he grips Andy’s shirt. The panic attacks have been much more frequent recently; Andy knows Patrick’s getting worse, he can see the kid breaking right in front of his eyes.

He waits until he’s sat Patrick down on the edge of the table before he places his hands on Patrick’s shoulders and tries to calm him, taking deep breaths with him until the boy matches Andy’s pace. “Stop crying,” he tells Patrick, “you’re being silly now. Stop crying.”

Patrick quickly bows his head and swipes at his eyes, his wings curling around himself. Andy hates the fact that Patrick assumes a scolding means a beating, but he doesn’t resist as Andy pushes him down on the table, tilts the surface so that Patrick’s still sitting up semi-straight, and examines the bullet wounds closely.

They’re not deep. The metal succeeded in ripping open Patrick’s skin, but had worse luck getting past his rib cage, given that his bones are composed of what is essentially living titanium. Neither are bleeding, but neither has healed at all, blackened blood still crusted where Andy didn’t dare wash. Patrick’s stare tracks his every move.

Patrick hates the stitches. He writhes and whines and won’t be reasoned with; no matter how many times Andy tells him to calm down, to keep still, to stop making this more difficult than it should be, he doesn’t listen. In this state, he’s an animal – terrified of pain and unable to focus on anything but.

Yet Andy manages to clean and close the wounds all the same, patching them with gauze and starting work on Patrick’s hands. He picks out every single shred of glass and places it with a soft clink into a tray to one side. He cleans each cut with diligence and stitches late into the night, until Patrick’s forearms resemble those of Frankenstein’s monster but the red is nowhere in sight.

By the time he’s finished bandaging over the stitches, Patrick’s been silent for a while and his eyes are glazed and vacant – Andy’s own droop behind his glasses, the white light beginning to sting. He sits back and sighs, watching the breath rush slowly through the boy, thinking how peaceful he seems with his hair dried red-gold and his wings fanned out behind him, how young he is to have been through all this. It’s not fair, not fair at all.

Andy’s clearing equipment and pulling off gloves when Patrick finally speaks again. “You promised,” he says, hoarse but watching Andy blearily, “you – you promised.”

“What did I promise,” Andy sighs, hoping against hope that he won’t have to explain to Patrick that he was lying when he said there's no more pain coming.

“Water,” Patrick says quietly, his gaze drifting to the sink next to Andy, “please. Water.”

“Oh – yes, of course,” Andy responds, hastening to find a beaker and fill it. When he brings it to Patrick, the boy very nearly manages a smile, his eyes wide with gratitude as Andy puts the beaker to his lips and tips the water down his throat. He drinks the entire glass before he gasps for breath, his chin dripping wet but his mouth curving upwards at the edges.

Andy dabs at his chin with the cuff of his sleeve – his shower-sodden clothes have just about dried by now – and smiles at the boy, brushing hair from his face and noting how much blue has found its way into his eyes. “You did so well,” Andy says softly, and the way Patrick’s face lights makes Andy mourn every past moment when he failed to praise Patrick. The kid is owed eighteen years’ worth of kindness.

It feels like the right thing to do when Andy leans and kisses Patrick’s forehead, fatherly instinct overwhelming him for a second or two before he realises his place and sits back in his chair. Patrick stares at him, his head tilting in confusion as he works through whatever’s going on in his head.

“Pete?” he asks finally, and Andy can’t help but feel his heart sink. The lawyer isn’t here,  _Andy’s_ here, Andy cleaned Patrick up, stitched his wounds, and yet the boy doesn’t care for his company.

“No,” he sighs, “I’m Andy. Not Pete. Do you remember?” It’s a stupid question, of course Patrick doesn’t remember, his brain isn’t processing what his eyes are seeing, he’s a blind thing, an animal. So instead, Andy brings his sleeve to Patrick’s nose and lets him sniff at it, sees the realisation cross his face.

“Where’s Pete?” he questions, “You’re not him.”

“No. No, I’m not,” Andy huffs, beginning to resent that fact. If he was Pete, he’d have done something vastly more intelligent than smashing up the Natural History Museum.

But Patrick seems so crestfallen. His wings curl to wrap around his shoulders and he frowns a hole in the floor, pouting something chronic. Andy’s not sure if he can deny that look anymore.

“Fine,” Andy says, giving in, “I’ll take you to him.”

-

Helping Patrick into some soft, grey trousers and buttoning a sweater around his wings, Andy leads him from the room, chivvying him along each time he pauses to examine the bandages around his wrists. He can barely walk without tripping over his own feet; he needs to sleep, to give his brain a chance to gather itself.

Wentz’s room is dark when Andy presses the door open and peers inside. There’s clothes scattered over the floor and a lump in the thin duvet, which stirs as Andy raps his fist against the door.

“Wha – Andy?” Wentz slurs, pushing himself up on his elbows and squinting at the wedge of light spilling into the room.

“This is only for tonight,” Andy states, pulling Patrick through the door.

“Patrick,” Wentz gasps, scrabbling at the covers where they’re tangled around his legs, “oh God,  _Patrick.”_

The boy seems uncertain as Wentz stumbles towards him, one hand clasped around his halo and his eyes fixed upon Wentz’ outstretched hands. But Pete doesn’t pay this any mind as he barrels into Patrick and wraps his arms around him, his head dropping to Patrick’s shoulder and his fingers curling in Patrick’s jumper.

“I thought you might die, Patrick, I thought you’d left me – are you alright, are you gonna be okay, Patrick?” Wentz babbles, sliding his arms from around Patrick and cupping the boy’s face in his hands. “Patrick?”

Patrick’s mouth flaps wordlessly, his brain struggling to keep up. Wentz frowns, strokes a thumb over Patrick’s cheek and looks towards Andy.

“What’s happened to him?” he asks, barely-masked panic creeping behind his eyes, “What’ve you done?”

Andy prepares himself for the verbal assault, sighing and leaning back against the doorframe. “They took away his halo. He won’t be fully right for forty-eight hours, at least. I’ve stitched him up as best I can. Be gentle with him – no, uh, sex, no loud noises, no sudden touches. He needs peace and rest.”

Pete’s face crumbles and he turns back to Patrick, their noses close and their eyes locked together. “Pete?” Patrick asks finally, lifting a white-wrapped hand to touch Pete’s pyjama-clad chest.

“Yeah, that’s right, baby, it’s me, it’s Pete,” he whispers, “don’t worry, sweetie, you’re safe now, I’ve got you.”

Andy averts his gaze as Pete starts to kiss Patrick, feeling voyeuristic enough as it is. He wonders why he dislikes Wentz so much – perhaps it’s some protective instinct, perhaps it’s that Patrick’s found a new person to need. Or perhaps it’s that he’s jealous of the fact that Pete can show such unforced kindness with no guilt in sight, no loyalty to the system that hurt Patrick. The boy isn’t the only one who’s been brainwashed by that system; Andy’s starting to wonder whether he himself has been duped, too.

Wentz barely looks at him as he takes Patrick’s hands in his own and leads him towards the bed, murmuring encouragement in the boy’s ear all the while. Andy remains in the doorway as Pete helps Patrick under the covers, watches them curl up together, hears Patrick say “Pete,” like it’s the answer to everything.

 

Andy doesn’t smile as he bids them goodnight and pulls the door shut. Because Andy knows what happens in the morning. 


	22. Love Is Cruel, But Have You Met Humanity?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so I'm trying out this thing called fluff? Let me know if you like it. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's still reading this, I love you all and, like, please don't hate me. My tumblr is the-chaotic-panda if you wanna say hi / burn everything I hold dear. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Pete wakes to the warmth of two bodies. He's done it dozens of times before, a different guy pressed up against him, a different excuse buzzing on his lips; the same rush of cold as he leaves the sheets, the same disappointment as he realises he's not worth keeping.

But when he stirs, the arms around him tighten. When he opens his eyes, Patrick's head is half buried in the horizon of the pillow, his breath ghosting across Pete's face. Pete's not sure if he's ever seen Patrick so at peace, his resting frown smoothed into something softer, brows delicately risen and lips parted. Streams of coppered gold trail over his forehead, cascade onto the pillow to pool in gentle waves about his cheek. Pete blows a soft breath just to watch them stir, and swears he sees the dimples at the corners of Patrick's mouth deepen in a shadow of a smile.

Hands are clasped tight to the fabric of Pete's t-shirt, a wing draped across the two of them. Pete dips his fingers into the feathers, feeling the barely-there fluff over his skin. The lights are on, bright white and blazing in the corner of his vision, but they bathe the boy in a glowing fuzz that has Pete wondering if perhaps this is heaven after all.

It certainly feels like it. Patrick's so warm, his heart a hot water bottle under Pete's careful hand, the duvet sealing in their shared heat, a home of their own making.

Pete averts his eyes from the bandages binding Patrick's arms, from the impressions of dressings over the bullet wounds in his chest; the flash of anger that darts through him has no place in this haven of serenity. Instead, he revels in the sight of Patrick so close, in the fact that he can reach out and touch Patrick without a sheet of glass between them.

He does so with careful fingers, brushing the fall of hair from Patrick's face and tucking it behind his ear. He rests his palm on the gentle line of Patrick's jaw, stroking over the silken skin of his temples and wondering if this is it. He's chased love for so long, mourned its absence, resigned himself to its loss, can it really be laid out in front of him?

If this is it, it's not quite as he expected. It's not strong or sudden like Huey promised, it's not a fantastical epiphany or a great discovery of meaning. If this is it, it's subtle. It's the space between wingbeats, the breath before the drop. It's nothing at all, it should be a let-down, an anti-climax, but instead Pete just feels full, satisfied, complete. Perhaps it's not fully bloomed yet, perhaps he's not quite ready to let it consume him – but he can feel it, the soft flutter in his stomach as Patrick's mouth twitches, the leap of his heart as Patrick's eyes breeze open and his gaze rests upon Pete.

"Hey there," Pete whispers, smiling softly across the pillow as Patrick blinks away the haze of sleep.

Patrick doesn't reply, simply stares at Pete, his eyes flicking to Pete's arm on him and Pete's body against his own and flooding with confusion. Pete has barely picked up on it before Patrick starts to squirm, pushing Pete away and curling his wing around his own torso.

"Hey – no, no, it's okay," Pete soothes, taking his hands off Patrick and placing them where he can see them. He won't be right for two days, Hurley had said – Pete had hoped he'd been exaggerating, but the panic on Patrick's face suggests not. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Patrick's eyes peek from behind his wing, his bound hands shuffling out from underneath the feathers and towards Pete. His fingers nudge Pete's palm and Pete refrains from curling his hands around them, letting Patrick trace his palms and poke at the veins in his wrists. He can't help but smile as Patrick's fingers come to rest on his face, feeling him out from his hairline to the curve of his jaw.

Pete's acting on instinct when he raises his hand and hovers it near Patrick's face; he's half expecting to lose a finger, but instead, Patrick clasps Pete's hand and presses it to his nose, smelling it, just as Pete had hoped. He sniffs Pete's palm and all around Pete's wrist, concentration twisting his face, then shifts closer to snuffle along Pete's arm until his nose is buried in Pete's chest. When he looks up, the panic has disappeared.

"Pete?" he croaks, a hand pawing at Pete's collar, kneading the fabric gently between his fingers. 

Pete smiles, wide and real and reflected in the spark of Patrick's eyes. "That's right," he says, "it's Pete. How're you feeling, sweetie?"

Patrick doesn't seem to understand the question but the soft curve of his lips doesn't fall and his hand slides to stroke Pete's cheek, his wing stretching to rest across Pete's body. There's a second of smile-filled silence before Pete moves to kiss Patrick, lifting his head from the pillow and leaning the few inches between them to press their lips together.

It's short and soft and Patrick doesn't quite kiss back, but the light in his eyes when they pull apart is reciprocation enough. Pete stays close enough for their noses to touch, for their breath to mingle; he can only stand a few seconds before he's going back for more, feeling the give of Patrick's bottom lip between his own and realising just how much he missed it. He allows himself one last peck to Patrick's mouth before he moves back, watching Patrick's eyes flutter open and his cheeks ball up in a smile – he hides his face in the sheets and then peeks back out at Pete, pink flushing his face. 

"I've missed you so much," Pete says quietly, because he has to say it, he has to somehow express the deep sense of longing welling up inside him. He wonders if he should say those three little words, too; they dance on the tip of his tongue as he watches Patrick smile, feels Patrick's hands over his skin.

He decides not to. He wants Patrick to understand, to fully understand, he wants Patrick to remember it because – and it brings tears to Pete's eyes when he realises – it'll probably be the first time anyone's ever said it to him.

Instead, he just kisses Patrick again, threading his hands through Patrick's hair and savouring each push of Patrick's lips. The surge of protectiveness that compels him to hold Patrick so close is like nothing Pete's felt before; he's never had someone to cherish until now, never wanted to keep hold of anyone until now. He keeps kissing until Patrick pushes him away, leaving Patrick's mouth panting and his eyes curious.

"I'm sorry," Pete whispers as he returns his head to the pillow. "I just – got carried away," he smiles breathily, "you – you need rest."

"Don't leave," Patrick says quickly, his hands curling tighter in Pete's t-shirt, his wing resting heavily on Pete's shoulder.

"Not gonna leave," Pete assures him, sliding a careful hand to Patrick's soft waist and shifting himself closer. Patrick lets out a hum of contentment and tucks his head under Pete's chin, his hair tickling Pete's neck. With a bubble of warmth in his chest, Pete presses a kiss to Patrick's forehead, breathing in his smell and bathing in the peace.

As he falls asleep, that's all Pete wishes for: peace, and that it might last.

It doesn't.

-

Pete wakes to Patrick's shouts.

Nothing makes sense, his vision is too blurred and the wave of noise that hits him is more than his stirring brain can possibly grasp at. His eyes catch on first; Patrick isn't beside him, Patrick is on the floor – they are no longer alone.

"How did you get in here?!" someone shouts through the ringing, "speak!"

Pete scrambles to the edge of the bed and tries to take in the scene in front of him. Patrick doesn't reply beyond a wordless yell, a guard's hand wrapped firmly around his arm and shaking him where he's crumpled on the floor. There's four of them, weapons aimed at Patrick's face as the speaker aims a kick at his stomach. Pete barely thinks before he dives.

The floor is hard and cold and painful as both it and a steel-capped boot slam into him, his brain alight with pain and noise but a feeling of purpose sitting resolutely in his chest. "Stop!" he screams at the oncoming figures, all wielding sticks and heading for the boy whose wing Pete can feel underneath him.

"I didn't do it!" Patrick cries, scrabbling out from beneath Pete and away from his attackers, "I didn't do it!"

"Liar!" the guard – Johnson –  _Johnson –_ replies, lunging past Pete and landing a hand in Patrick's hair. A second filled with Patrick's screams is enough to have Pete on his feet and throwing himself at Johnson, his fighting strategy boiling down to simply taking all the blows meant for Patrick. He shoves at the guard until he stumbles backwards and releases his hold on the boy.

Patrick crawls away, tucking himself into a corner and wrapping himself in his wings as another man pursues him, baton raised high in the air. "Fucking  _stop!"_ Pete shouts again, grabbing at the man's arm before he can strike Patrick again and dragging him backwards as far as he can manage.

"How did you get out of solitary, you little shit?!" someone yells, but Pete's already heading for Patrick, crouching next to him and hunching over him as a baton flies towards them. It knocks the air out of Pete when it lands heavily between his shoulder blades, once, twice. Pete can only imagine what it might have done to Patrick's face.

"Stop," another voice bellows – Andy. He stands between them and the guards, hands flung outwards and a storm on his face. "I let him out of solitary. He needed stitching up. He asked for Pete so I let him in here."

"I didn't do it!" Patrick says again, his eyes wide and flicking from Andy to Johnson. Pete strokes a hand over his wing where it's wrapped around his body – he swears he can feel the boy trembling.

"We know you didn't," Pete whispers to him while Andy begins to snap at Johnson, "you didn't do anything wrong."

Patrick's gaze drifts back to Pete, recognition in his eyes and surety in the way he unfolds a wing with which to cover Pete. But fear is still spilt over his face, twitching with each crack of raised voices. Pete lifts a hand and cups his jaw.

"It's okay. I won't let them hurt you," Pete says softly, a promise he wishes he could more certainly keep. Nevertheless, he snakes an arm around Patrick and brings him closer, turning him away from Johnson's hissing insults and guiding his head to rest against Pete's collarbone. "I got you."

"He's not allowed contact," Johnson's snarling, "You weren't allowed to give the halo back, he's supposed to be out cold."

"He was nearly dead. You'd have nothing to bully if it weren't for me," Andy says icily, his hands clenched into fists. "Now, I'm going to walk him to the table, and you're going to leave us all be. Alright?"

"Piss off," Johnson responds, "we've been ordered to keep a watch of him. Can't have him trying anything."

"He's not in his right mind, he won't hurt you," Andy says, turning to them and gesturing for them to stand up. "Come along now, let's get this over with."

"Get what over with?" Pete asks slowly, wishing he could drape himself more thoroughly over Patrick. "I'm not letting you do anything with him."

"Will we ever be shot of you?" Johnson spits. "Fucking fags."

Andy simply rolls his eyes. "Get up," he says, "if you want to protect him, stand him up and keep him calm."

"No," Pete replies resolutely, "you're not cutting him open again."

"Wentz," Andy huffs, striding nearer. "Please, just do it." He lowers his voice. "This one's necessary."

Pete can still feel Patrick shaking in his arms. In this moment, he's not Pete's lover, he's a kid, a boy robbed of safety and friendship and privacy clinging to the first person that offered him a kind hand. He's put all his trust in that person. Pete squeezes him tighter. "No."

Andy crouches next to them, running a hand across his face. "Wentz. Pete. Please, this one will help."

"What are you gonna do to him?"

"It won't take long. It's necessary, Pete. If you don't cooperate, they'll only take him by force."

Pete turns to Patrick, lifting his chin and meeting his eyes, silently begging for answers. His Patrick knows how to worm his way out of any kind of trouble; this Patrick simply stares. The look in his eyes is one of utter terror.

"No," Pete says again. Andy sighs.

"Alright, Johnson. Have your fun."

Before Pete knows it, they're being approached by four armed guards, weapons raised. Pete brings Patrick to his feet, tries to cover Patrick with his body, tells himself that this is what Patrick would want him to do. Patrick always fights. The problem is, Patrick never wins.

"Stop," Pete says at the last second, "let me take him. Stop."

Johnson smirks, waving at his colleagues to stand down. He extends a hand towards the open door. "Right this way."

Patrick's hands clasp at Pete's waist as he starts to move them forward, his wings reaching to encompass Pete fully. His eyes scream with questions.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," Pete murmurs gently, "I don't know what else to do." They shuffle out into the corridor. Johnson beckons him one way, Andy blocks the other.

 Pete presses a kiss to Patrick's temple. "Patrick," he whispers, " _run."_

Patrick doesn't understand until Pete shoves him in Andy's direction, tripping over his own feet before catching himself and starting to sprint. Pete barely notices Johnson slamming him up against the wall, a sigh of relief washing through him.

He doesn't realise the fault in his plan until Andy catches Patrick by the halo and watches him crumple to the floor. He drags Patrick to his feet once more and shakes his head at Pete. "I told you, Wentz. This is necessary."

Pete's mouth flaps as he struggles in Johnson's hold. He was so sure Andy would simply step aside, like he always seems to do. "How can you let this happen? How can you claim to love him when you – you hurt him like this?!"

"Aw, did you really think he'd go along with your little plan?" Johnson coos, shoving him harder into the wall. "Bless. Where exactly was the kid supposed to run to? There's nowhere for him to go. You're on a losing side, lawyer."

"Pete," Patrick cries as Andy pushes him down the corridor. "Pete! I didn't do it, Pete!"

"It's gonna be okay," Pete calls, now a downright lie. "Sweetie, don't panic, I'll stop them, I'll –"

He's cut off by Johnson's hand pressing into his face, crushing his lips against his teeth. "Shut the hell up. If I hear another word out of you, the kid's injuries will be the least of your worries."

Pete can only watch as Patrick stumbles around a corner and out of sight, the tips of his wings disappearing a second later. He blinks back the tears that sting his eyes.

Johnson shoves him unceremoniously back into his bedroom – his prison. The anxiety is like a rat gnawing at his fingers, spiking each time teeth hit nerve, burrowing its way down to the bone. The addition of love to this twisted equation has only resulted in greater desperation, heightened yearning. His thoughts always end with Patrick, his limbs itch with the want to be wrapped around him. Pete's always known himself to be an anxious person, but  _this_  – this distress, this torment - is something else entirely.

-

Pete's right to be worried.

When Johnson marches him back down the corridor, he wears a smug smile, a new spring in his step and a flash of malice in his eyes as he asks if Pete would like to see his creature now. Pete nods, follows, dreads to think what they might have done this time. If it wasn't for Andy's insistence that this one's  _necessary,_ Pete would think they'd finally killed Patrick. He's not sure which would be worse; seeing Patrick dead or seeing Patrick in so much pain he wishes he was.

"He's in there," Johnson smirks, pointing towards a slate grey door. "He looks – different."

Pete just glares as he meets Johnson's beady eyes, his face carefully blank. Johnson looks away first, swiping his keycard against the lock and yanking the door open. He steps aside and beckons Pete across the threshold. Pete can feel his heart beating in his ears.

But instead of Patrick, it's Andy he sees. "Wentz?" he says, "What are you –"

"I thought I'd give him a look at the damage," Johnson replies, giving Pete a push into the room. It's a lab of some sort; Andy sits at a table littered with paperwork and silver tools glitter from cabinet tops.

"Now is not the time," Andy says shortly, placing the lid on his pen and glancing towards an open door at the back of the room. Pete glimpses a bed. Already, he feels his stomach curl with nausea.

"What've you done," Pete asks, low and trembling.

"Pete, just – come and sit down. I need to explain some things to you."

The atmosphere is suffocating. They both know something Pete doesn't – they both know what awful fate has befallen the person he loves, and each second he remains ignorant is another square foot of air sucked from the room. Pete looks from Johnson to Andy. Both eye him as if he's a glass pushed too close to the edge.

"What's going on?" he asks, looking towards the room and wondering if he should simply make a run for it.

Andy seems to read his mind, standing up from his desk and pulling the door shut. "Sit down, Pete."

Johnson shifts in the corner of the room, and Pete feels a stir of hatred in his chest. "Not with him here."

"I've every right to be here," Johnson snaps, "and if you speak to me like that again, I'll-"

"Yes, Johnson, get out," Andy sighs. "This doesn't need to be made worse."

Johnson's face reddens. "I'm technically your superior, Hurley, don't –"

"Being allowed to carry a gun does not make you my superior, Johnson, it makes you a trigger-happy meathead with a god complex. Get out."

Pete watches Johnson boil, sees his hand twitch towards his gun but curl into a fist instead. "Fine," he mutters, stomping towards the corridor. "Enjoy what's left of your boyfriend." The door slams, and leaves a cold silence in its wake. Pete turns to Andy.

"What the fuck have you done," he says, dread curdling his insides. "Tell me right now, or I'm going to go and see for myself."

Andy's hand doesn't move from the door handle. "Pete – sit down. Please, let me explain to you why this will be beneficial."

Pete stays put. He wonders how easily Andy would go down if he were to shove him. He wonders how easily he could prise Andy's hand from the door.

The answer to both, as it happens, turns out to be  _very_.

The cabinets rattle as Andy staggers back into them, and Pete's hands tingle with the friction of lab coat lapels. His mind bounces between the shock of his own violence and the terrifying curiosity of what might have become of Patrick.

"Pete, please –" Andy starts, but Pete's already opening the door. "You have to understand that this is necessary!"

Pete strides inside.

"I promise you, this is a  _good_ thing, Pete, please, listen to me –"

What Pete sees can't be real. What Pete sees is perhaps one of the worst acts of malice he's ever encountered, the most vicious of sins, the most sickening of evils. What Pete sees brings tears to his eyes and bile to the back of his throat.

What Pete sees is an angel without wings.

Patrick lies unconscious on the bed, face down, his head tilted awkwardly to one side. His back gleams white under the seething lights, freckled and shifting with his breathing. Gauze pads are taped across his shoulders, neat and clean and cackling.

"It's for his own good," Andy says quietly from somewhere in the background. Pete wishes he'd choke.

The room seems to sway as Pete staggers towards Patrick's prone form, reality tearing at his seams with each step. The image in front of him won't be reconciled; that's not Patrick, that's not Pete's angel, Pete's angel has beautiful white wings billowing from his back, wings that can't just be  _not there_ anymore.

"What've you done," Pete whispers, even though it's so painfully obvious, so jarring that his bones ache with gnashing tremors. What he's truly asking is what this will do to Patrick, what exactly they've done to Patrick's tortured mind, whether this will finally drown the light in his eyes, break the backbone of his weary hope. The answer – certainly, unwaveringly, irreversibly – is  _yes_.

The hatred that courses through Pete will not translate into words; it screams only actions, only the swinging of fists and the gushing of blood. Pete wouldn't know how to crack a jaw or crush a nose, but the rage does, knows Andy stands too close. Insects are so easy to squash.

But that would deny Patrick the honour. If there's anything left of him, it'll be fury. "He's going to kill you," Pete says, flat and absent. "He's going to smash your skull into pieces."

Pete doesn't hear Andy's response, doesn't care. There's tears on his face, tightening his throat. He wants to scream that this is too much, too far, but it's always been too much, always left Patrick with less of himself, always ripped him into smaller pieces.

As Pete reaches out, he thinks how different this should have been; tracing the curve of Patrick's shoulders with love in his heart rather than acid in his throat, hearing Patrick's sweet laughter instead of just empty breathing. He strokes across Patrick's spine, the intimacy sterilised by the gauze, the lights, the stillness.

It burns him up. It blazes in his stomach, in his lungs, behind his eyes as he scrubs at his face with his sleeve. His skin seems stretched tighter around his frame, straining and splitting where the anger seethes, ashes of grief settling low in his stomach. It's more than a sin – it's not just an affront to morality, to any sense of decency humanity may have retained – it's a helpless boy whose unimaginable pain goes unnoticed, uncared for.

Patrick's face twitches when Pete touches it, and Pete flinches away, terrified of Patrick waking up, of watching him realise what they've done to him, what they've taken from him. Pete wonders if he'll ever see that happy kid again, if this will finally snap his neck. Cupping the curve of Patrick's cheek, Pete prays this peace lasts a little longer, that someone up there might grant Patrick the gift of a good dream before he wakes up to the nightmare. Pete presses a soft kiss to Patrick's hair, hoping he feels it and not the tears dripping from Pete's face.

Then, Pete turns on Andy.

"How could you," he says, "just – how could you?"

Andy looks an odd kind of sad – disinterested but pitying, as if he's watching a poor yet endearing performance of Romeo and Juliet. He shakes his head. "It needed to happen."

"Why."

"Pete, come and sit down," Andy sighs, drifting back into the other room and beckoning for Pete to follow. Sitting down is definitely a ploy to keep Pete from throwing Andy across the room, but he plays along anyway, slumping into a chair and scrubbing the tears from his face. "Listen, I –"

"There's no excuse for this," Pete huffs into his hands, trailing his eyes to Andy's and wondering how he could have possibly thought the man was on his side. "Whatever you say, it doesn't matter. This is fucking disgusting."

Andy adjusts his glasses, folds his arms across the desk, a picture of corporate formality. "Pete. This was a necessary business investment –"

"Investment?!" Pete explodes, his fist slamming down on the table and his voice suddenly roaring around the room. "He's a fucking person! He's a kid and you've – you've –" Pete tails off as the realisation dawns. "You've sold them, haven't you. You've fucking sold them."

"The museum deal fell through. We needed funds. We didn't want to have to accept this offer but it became the only option. This will keep him useful, Pete. As long as he's making money, he's kept alive."

"That's despicable. That's absolutely fucking barbaric and you know it, you fucking selfish son of a bitch," Pete spits, his voice rising with his anger. "He's not your fucking business venture."

Andy shakes his head. "They don't see it that way. As far as those higher up see it, as soon as we run out of money, he's not worth the upkeep. We have to justify his existence somehow."

"So you sell his fucking  _wings_?" Pete growls, "that's – that's – who the hell wanted them?"

Andy laughs, hollow. Pete wants to rip his throat out. "The feathers are highly sought after. People will pay tens of thousands for just one; his bones, too, they're thought to have healing properties. It's all pseudoscience, of course, but you'd be amazed at the amount of money in it."

"How much," Pete asks, just to learn what they think Patrick's worth.

"Three hundred and fifty million."

"Fucking hell," Pete blurts, choking on his own saliva.

"And once they're sold part by part, the company in question will almost definitely make a profit. His primary feathers alone will sell for a million each." There's a nasty little glint of greed in Andy's eyes that snaps Pete back to reality. He doubts that Patrick will care for profit margins.

"If he's worth that much, why not just kill him?"

"Well, that was definitely a possibility. But for now, he's worth more to us alive. We've tested all we can regarding flight and aerodynamics and so forth. The wings were – disposable."

Pete can only stare at Andy's lifeless eyes, at the absolute indifference within them. He searches for words, but what could he possibly say to make this robot feel.

"I know you think I'm evil," Andy says softly, as if his acknowledgement somehow lessens his actions. "But the truth is, if he's ever –  _ever –_ going to get out of here, he needs to lose those wings."

Pete frowns at him. "What do you mean."

"I mean," Andy huffs, "if you're expecting to free him, to persuade them to let him go – this is the only way."

"No it isn't," Pete snaps, "you could have kept him whole. You could have at least  _tried – "_

"Pete, look me in the eyes and tell me that they'd ever dream of letting him out of here with those wings."

Pete meets his gaze and stares, searching for a response, a put down. But the more he thinks, the more he realises – there's no way Patrick could live a normal life, no way he'd be able to disappear totally, no way his captors would risk his release.

"You know I'm right," Andy says, "trust me, this puts us in a much stronger position. He's all but human, now. He's not at risk of going back to a display cabinet. They can tell the papers he's a fake, they can release him as the boy involved with the fraud and it'll all be forgotten soon enough. Something like that, anyway. You're the lawyer."

Pete doesn't want to understand. This twisted act can't be justified – he wants every single person involved to burn for this. But if it saves Patrick from a lifetime of pain, could it possibly be worth it? It hurts Pete's chest to think about. "You had no right to take them." Of that, Pete's sure.

"So you think I should have gained his permission? You must know that there's no way in heaven and earth that he'd say  _yes._  He'll see, eventually, that this is for the best. As will you."

"What if he doesn't," Pete says, fresh tears slipping down his face. "What if this is too much?"

Andy's lips curl over his teeth. He looks at Pete for a few moments, then shakes his head. "It's a risk we have to take."

"Not we _. You."_ Pete's not the one gambling with Patrick's sanity.

With a sigh, Andy nods. Pete wonders if he even feels guilty.

"I should check on him," Andy says after a stretch of silence punctuated by Pete's sniffs.

"When will he wake up?"

"I don't know. But I think you should be with him when he does."

Pete nods. He doesn't plan on leaving Patrick's side ever again. He watches Andy drift into the other room, hears the scuffle of bedding and the clatter of metal against plastic. He aches for Patrick, wishes he could help him, heal him, cleanse all the hurt from his brain. Instead, he has to watch them snip away at Patrick's body and let his mind unravel.

He cries quietly into his hands until he decides it won't help anything. Then comes a scream.

It cuts right to Pete's core; it rings at a frequency that hums in his nerve endings, sets his teeth on edge. It's Patrick, unmistakeably Patrick. Pete knows purely by the way the sound cracks his chest in half.

He staggers from his chair just as an almighty crash punctuates the shouts and broken glass skims across the floor. He's met with utter chaos as he swings into the room; a cabinet of medicine lies in pieces on the floor, beakers shattered around it and pills scattered over the tiles. Patrick lets out another bloodcurdling yell as he hurls the bedside table at a cowering Andy, who cries out and sinks to the floor, arms thrown over his face.

Andy's begging at Patrick, incoherent pleas as Patrick clears a path towards him. A blink of Pete's tear-filled eyes and Patrick's pouncing, rage possessing him as he screams and rips and pulverises, Andy's shouts quickly reduced to rasping breaths. Pete has no idea what he's doing as he throws himself towards Patrick, wrenching at the boy's bandaged hand where it's closed around Andy's throat.

Pete sure he's previously appreciated how strong Patrick is – but not until now has his strength made itself quite so apparent. Patrick's arm is rigid, unmovable. A shrug of his shoulders sends Pete to the floor, his fist plunging into Andy's ribcage. Pete tries again, tries scrabbling at Patrick's arm – not for Andy, just for Patrick, for what it might do to him if he really did kill someone – but Patrick swipes at him this time, rakes his nails across Pete's face. The flash of pain and another of those rattling screams distracts Pete from the falling sensation as he's flung across the room.

Beakers burst over his head as Patrick turns his tornado onto Pete, Andy's body left strewn in the opposite corner. Patrick aims his fist at Pete's face and Pete flinches away from it, hearing the crack of plaster and feeling flecks of Patrick's blood spatter across his face. His brain spins with the sensation that he's going to die. Later, he'll think on how much he fears it.

He takes a deep breath as Patrick shoves him into the wall, his ribs aching with the pressure and his eyes falling shut. He won't win this fight – he may as well die swiftly. He can feel the fury in Patrick's bones, in the pitch of his yells and the taughtness of his muscles. He'd held a small, weak hope that perhaps their love might have been enough to get Patrick through this, that if Pete could hold him tight enough, Patrick's broken pieces might knit back together. Instinctively, Pete throws his arms out in front of him.

Patrick never lands his punch. When the pain doesn't come, Pete opens his eyes, sees where his outstretched hand is resting. He'd always expected Patrick's halo to be cold, like metal; instead it pulses with heat. The world narrows to only this moment, to Patrick's gasp of shock and Pete's realisation, to the touch of Pete's fingers against polished gold.

"I – I'm sorry," Pete stammers as he finally retracts his hand. "I didn't – I – " He tails off as he watches Patrick lower his fist, sees all the anger and the betrayal in Patrick's eyes settle into absolute horror, feels the hand pinning him against the wall loosen. For a few seconds, Pete swears he can see Patrick's soul, bared raw and ruined on his face.

When he slumps forward, Pete catches him. He feels Patrick's first cracked sob in the crook of his neck, feels Patrick's hot breath against his skin. He tries to think of something to say, but no comforting words seem built to reach this far. Instead, he just holds Patrick, a hand carefully at his waist, the other sliding to the nape of his neck and stroking over his hair. 

He lets Patrick cry, hysterical screams wracking his body. Agony has never been more accurately exemplified. 

 


End file.
